Please read the following revisions and comments in order and come to class prepared to discuss what you've seen about the revision process. We will be writing about this at the beginning of class, so be prepared.
At the bottom, you'll find a link to the published essay.
Revision Package
Draft #1
What I Learned on My Summer Vacation: A Writing Teacher at a Writing Colony
Stephanie Vanderslice
I have a confession to make. At forty four and a writer for more than half my life, I had never been to a writing colony before. Also a full time creative writing teacher, I’ve always been pretty adamant that it’s possible to do both well. So dividing my time between writing, teaching and administering (a site of the National Writing Project) has always been a fact of life for me (not to mention the additional complications of a rich family life with a husband and two boys). Mostly, it does work pretty well. I’ve co-written or written three books on teaching creative writing and a long list of essays on the subject, as well as personal essays, short stories, and a novel, all by carving out a certain amount of time on a daily, (well, sometimes weekly basis) to put in the hours on my own writing. Plus, there was always “May.”
Ever since our youngest son entered kindergarten six years ago, May has become the golden month for my husband (also a fellow writer and academic) and me. Classes are over and the kids are still in school. In other words—long stretches of time at home in my studio with an endless cup of coffee and my work and a blissfully quiet house—even with my husband at work in the next room. May was how Teaching Creative Writing to Undergraduates: A Practical Sourcebook (Fountainhead) and Rethinking Creative Writing (Professional and Higher) got finished (well, two Mays for the latter, actually). This is not to say the rest of the year was not productive—just not as peaceful.
But I had reached a crossroads with my novel. I was on the precipice of the third draft and while I was pleased with how it was going, it needed to cohere better. To flow from beginning to end like a great swath of sumptuous cloth instead of a patchwork quilt. To achieve this, it didn’t need an hour or two here and there, or even a regular three or four in glorious, much-anticipated May. It needed hours, many, many hours, of my undivided attention.
In April, I started looking into writer’s colonies and was fortunate to find one that was only three hours away from me in central Arkansas, Dairy Hollow Writer’s Colony in Eureka Springs, the north central part of the state, near the Missouri border. I sent off my application and received my acceptance just a week later. I continued to work on the novel and several other pieces through May, directed the summer institute of the Great Bear Writing Project for teachers as I do each June and looked forward to my week at Dairy Hollow in July, a week of just me and the novel.
I had no idea what to expect. I had come to believe that the piecework nature of my life—a little writing here, a little reading there, teach a class here, meet with a student there—suited my temperament, which has always been a somewhat, shall we say, distracted ((my husband recently heard a radio show on adult ADD and has since given me an amateur diagnosis). So I wondered. I worried. Would I be able to put all that time to good use? Or would I spend hours staring at the wall or worse, succumb to the temptations of the artsy Ozark town—antique shops, galleries, restaurants—practically at my doorstep? Would the solitude be a blessing or a curse?
Day One: I am not worthy!
I’ve started out a little behind; it took me much longer to get here than I thought it would (curse those windy mountain roads) so I ended up missing my appointment with the Colony Director to pick up my key. Not a great first impression but fortunately she seemed understanding and left my key orientation packet in the front door box.
Met writer Philip Finch, the only other resident right now, as I was picking up the packet and he kindly directed me to my suite—the culinary suite no less! This wasn’t the suite I was originally assigned, but I’ll take it. It’s gorgeous—full of light, courtesy of many windows and the skylight in the writing/living room, with a gourmet kitchen to boot. I make a mental note to ask, when I next talk to the director, if this is really the suite I’m supposed to have—although the key did unlock the door.
Apparently, the culinary suite is the one usually used by chefs and food writers. The only one of its kind at any writer’s colony in the US, according to the article left in the suite, it was renovated in 2003 in conjunction with Renovation Style magazine, along with several major donors, most notably Kitchen Aid. The kitchen was designed, after consultation with several professional chefs and food writers, to be large but not too large (apparently a cavernous kitchen is exhausting for a chef), with state of the art appliances, and a gleaming six burner gas stove I am afraid to touch, all in a lovely pale blue and gray color scheme that is echoed throughout the suite.
After setting up my desk with everything I think I’ll need at the ready: computer, 1942 map of the five New York boroughs, a Time chronology of the 1940’s, and in front of me, the timeline of the lives of all six of my major characters that has proved essential in the last several months, it’s time for dinner, in the main house below. Here I meet Philip again and learn that dinner on the weekends, as well as breakfast and lunch during the week, is catch as catch can, an amalgam of leftovers from the previous week, and sandwiches from the bread and cold cuts in the central kitchen. I grab a quick dinner of peanut butter on toast and head back up to my suite to begin to make sense of my work and to ready everything for the first full day tomorrow. A quick call home to my husband to check in and let him know I arrived safely and I’m ready for bed and some solid reading time. To further my immersion in the time period I’m writing about—1920-1945 in the US and Germany (mostly the US), I’ve brought two books set in the period, Ethan Canin’s Carry Me Across the Water, a past favorite, and Erika Dreifus’ Quiet Americans, which I’ve been looking forward to reading for months..
It’s interesting how well-designed this suite is for not only culinary writers (re: sizable but not too sizable kitchen) but also writers in general—the workspace/living room is capacious, bright and comfortable while the bedroom is small and snug—which makes perfect sense since all I’ll do is sleep and read there. And tonight, I don’t even read for long; tired from the trip, I don’t get very far in Carry Me Across the Water before falling asleep.
Day 2: The Real Test
The alarm goes off at 7 and I begin the routine I planned the night before: make the coffee, shower and dress while it’s brewing, and I’m eating breakfast and enjoying my first cup by 7:15. Catching up on the world via the state newspaper, the Arkansas Democrat Gazette , is usually part of my breakfast ritual but that’s not available here. There is wireless, however. I consider checking in to CNN.com for my daily dose of news and then decide against it. If there is anything I need to know, my husband will call me, otherwise, I flip through a magazine with the first cup of coffee and head to my desk with the second.
Up at 7, at my desk at 7:45; no one else to pour cereal and milk for, no cat litter to change—although I do make the bed; I’m an inveterate bed-maker at home. Also a much curtailed morning grooming ritual—just a shower and some moisturizer since I’m not really going to see anyone—which suits me fine. Over the years, I’ve streamlined my morning routine from the hour and a half in those vain teenage years to about a half hour these days, enough to make myself presentable for work and the outside world and stave off the forces of gravity. Still, even streamlined I’ve always found the routine pretty boring and envied my husband’s ten minute shower, dress schedule. In this suite, however, the message is fairly clear: there are no mirrors save a tiny one in the equally tiny bathroom that hangs about five inches above my head. If I want to apply make-up or style my hair, I have to stand on tip-toes to do it. I’m here to work, to write, not to preen.
The key to staying at my desk, strangely enough, seems to be keeping the coffee coming. At home I only allow myself two cups in the morning; here, all bets are off and having some brew to sip is reward enough to stay on task and keep me going. No big discoveries there; Voltaire could have told me that.
Late in the morning, the Dairy Hollow director stops by with some news. The chef has taken ill, the result of her landlord’s overzealous use of mothballs, apparently. Philip and I are on our own for dinner that night, although the housekeeper will begin making our evening meals the following day. There is talk of taking us out for today’s dinner, but I am becoming so immersed in my work I’d just as soon stay in. Besides, there’s the gourmet kitchen to consider; might as well use it.
After a full, productive day of work, I celebrate by heading out to the local grocery store for provisions for breakfast and lunch the rest of the week and a very simple dinner tonight. I’m a creature of habit when it comes to breakfast and lunch anyway; for years I’ve started my day with precisely two whole grain waffles—no toppings or accoutrements—and coffee; lunch is usually peanut butter on whole wheat toast or some other kind of very simple sandwich. It feels good to know I can count on my ritual foods even here.
Nine hours of writing leaves my brain pretty fried so I know I’ve got to spend the evening doing something else to “fill the well,” as my former teacher, writer Richard Bausch says. So after dinner and a check in with the family I settle in with Carry Me Across the Water and luxuriate now not in writing but some nice, quiet reading time. Considering the books to pack for this retreat was a big decision (even though I also brought my Nook, so with the wireless here I’m technically never far from a bookstore). I hesitated over Carry Me Across the Water because even though I’m fond of it, I have read it before. I’m a notoriously poor re-reader—that tell-tale impatient distractibility strikes again when I allow myself to think about all the other new-to-me books out there begging to be read and I begin to lose interest. Fortunately, it doesn’t take long to become completely absorbed in Canin’s compelling tale all over again and savoring it in this way—as well as paying close attention to his writerly moves— is pure pleasure.
Day Two: Girls Who Wear Glasses
The second day flies by, perhaps even faster than the first. I’m feeling good about the work—the novel is coming together just as I hoped—and making a few more realizations about myself. One is that this kind of sustained close work demands my glasses—no excuses. Now, if you’re someone like my husband, who requires glasses or contacts to actually see the world, you’re not going to be too sympathetic here. Since adolescence I’ve had vision issues that require glasses for close work, reading, writing, paper grading, etc. but because I could see, more or less, without them, I was extremely lazy about wearing them. Not vain—I actually like myself in glasses—just lazy. Reaching into my purse or desk drawer, opening the case and slipping them on seemed to take so long that in my rush to read (that tell-tale impatience rearing its head again) the glasses usually got abandoned in the shuffle. Besides, most of my reading is for short periods (more about that later) so I could get by without them. Here though, after that first four-hour stint in front of the computer, it became pretty obvious: the glasses were not an option but a necessity if I was going to make it through the week. Fortunately, even though I can be lazy about wearing them, I never go anywhere without them.
Tonight’s dinner was in the main house at 6. While the director was extremely apologetic that we weren’t going to be the recipients of the usual chef’s talents due to the moth-ball incident, let me tell you, the housekeeper, who is from Prague, is a darn good cook. Our meal is a delicious juicy baked chicken, with parsleyed potatoes and fresh corn on the cob. It also gives me a chance to get to know Phillip Finch, the other writer here. Turns out he’s a journalist-crime writer-nonfiction writer (check him out at http://phillipfinch.com/) who’s also published a novel and who’s here to work on his second, although apparently a recent crime discovery from a private detective friend of his is also demanding his attention and frequent cell phone calls to his agent. It also turns out that he grew up in College Park, Maryland, close to my husband’s stomping grounds.
After dinner, I take a mile walk up the shady street, into town and back, on my husband’s suggestion when I mentioned I wasn’t getting out much. Strange that Eureka Springs is this lovely little artsy vacation town, green and shady, nestled in the backdrop of the Ozark hills but I’m spending most of my time holed up in my suite. Tonight I finish Carry Me Across the Water and realize, that because Quiet Americans is an even shorter book, it’s possible I might (Nook aside) run out of reading material before this retreat is over. As a writer and writing teacher, I’m also a word addict, but until I got here, I didn’t realize how unsustained my reading was, how often interrupted. Sure I carry the e-reader on me at all times; I find it difficult to pass even a brief period of unoccupied time without a book in front of my face. But that just what my reading experiences were; brief snatches of time that, while they added up, were in themselves disjointed, lacking in continuity and coherence. How could I write a sustained, enveloping body of prose if my own reading experiences had recently become (except for holiday breaks and the occasional vacation) staccato and disconnected? Here, the lack of distractions, the lack of cable, regular internet and especially, for me, of radio (not much of a television hound, I am nonetheless, an utter NPR fanatic) has returned me to the kind of long hours of reading bliss I hadn’t experienced since I was a teenager, (no one invokes this phenomena better than Michelle Slatalla in her New York Times essay “I Wish I Could Read Like a Girl” http://www.nytimes.com/2009/01/01/fashion/01spy.html). Fortunately, the shelves of the “Culinary Suite” are well stocked with food memoirs that beckon if my own library runs out.
Day Three: Finding Extra Hours
It was another good day. I am about two thirds through the novel revision and realizing another benefit to this retreat is that unlike my typical writing spaces; home, office, work, even hotels, there’s no gym access here. At home I try to fit an hour workout into most days; a lifelong habit that seems necessary if I want to stay healthy and productive. However, it takes ten minutes to get to the university gym each way, as well as additional time to change in an out of workout clothes, to shower and chat, even briefly, with colleagues. You get the picture: one hour can quickly become two. And two hours is a relatively large chunk of a day. Since I’m only here for a week, I decide to ditch the daily workout (I know, what a sacrifice). Not only did I want those two hours for my writing, I also wanted to keep the interruptions to a minimum. And as beneficial as it is—usually—a workout is a major interruption. It’s been a hot week here too, close to 100 every day, and one thing you learn quickly in the South is that if you want to maintain any semblance of energy during the day, you’d better make your forays into the un-airconditioned world few and far between. Not a problem here. I stay in the suite from rising until dinner time, keeping my energy levels nice and high.
Another delicious dinner tonight and more time to get to know Philip. He’s from Kansas but has spent some time in Arkansas and we have a few friends in common; the Mid-South/Mid-West literary world is not terribly big. He mentions tonight, too, that it’s nice that, for whatever reason, there are only two of us here right now, eliminating any of the posturing or position jockeying he imagines might take place during social gatherings at more populated writer’s colonies. I don’t know about that, since my experience with writer’s colonies is limited to this one, but I do know that as a relative introvert I cherish this solitude.
Day Four: There’s No Escaping It
A narrative problem arose today, around mid-morning. During the year, when I am at my desk and hit a bump in the writing road, it’s easy to say, “well, it’s almost time for that conference call/dentist appointment/committee meeting (ugh!) anyway—let me put this aside for now and think on it.” And while “thinking on it,” often does work for me in my regular life, here, with nothing else to turn to, no other excuses, I’ve also learned that so does powering through, staring stubbornly at the screen until the next line finally comes along to get you back in the groove. So I sat there. I stared. I drank more coffee. And eventually, reached a solution.
My suite looks out onto the main street and I’ve been keeping the blinds on the workroom window wide open most days to take advantage of the natural light. Today I realize maybe that isn’t such a great idea. Late in the afternoon, there’s a knock at the door. I answer cautiously to find a rather disheveled-looking young man on the doorstep.
“Is this the writer’s colony?” He wants to know.
“Yes,”
“Can I come in for a while to rest and get out of this heat?”
Can this stranger come in? Um, I don’t think so.
“Actually,no,” I tell him. “I’m working right now. But I’d be happy to bring you a big glass of water.”
“No thanks,” he mutters, a little exasperated. “I’ve got water.”
Okay, then. Heart pounding, I close the door, checking twice that it’s locked and my cell phone is close by. Disheveled guy then proceeds to cross the street and sit on the curb, so that he’s in effect staring into my picture window as I write, or try to anyway. I’m nervous and pretty annoyed at the interruption. Closing the blinds seems a little combative but finally, I do, making a mental note to keep them closed and counsel the next inhabitants of the suite to do the same. I guess I was a bit naïve to think I could allow myself to be on display like that.
Tonight is the monthly Dairy Hollow Poet’s Luck, where members of the Eureka Springs literary community gather to share work and food with each other. Philip and I are both scheduled to read. Everyone is kind and welcoming but I feel a little odd at first, like an island among all these groups of people who clearly know each other so well.
It’s nice to see such a large group enjoying literature and writing and just sharing. Even though this group is larger, there is still very little posturing, just a celebration of the word. Turns out my disheveled young man had a reason for showing up earlier; he was meeting up with a young woman he’d heard would be here at the Poet Luck, an ethereal young thing named Miranda after Shakespeare’s Miranda. She stands up to read a handwritten poem that rather amazes me in its mature use of language and its cadence. There are several wonderful readers, including another young woman, a writing and linguistics major at a college in New Mexico, who gets up to do some slam poetry, an older woman who reads a haunting story about a girl in a mental institution and a playwright who reads an excerpt from a very funny southern play that will be read next week at the Hollow. Wish I could be there to hear the whole thing. Finally the evening ends with, of all things, a ponytailed man singing a satirical and sorrowful song about Michael Jackon. There are a huge number of ponytailed men in Eureka Springs and they all look a little alike, kind, gentle, with those frizzy salt and pepper ponytails. Sort of like the boys who slouch in the back of my classroom with their baseball caps low on their heads; it’s sometimes hard to tell them apart.
Day 5: Finding the Rhythm
Even a just a week of sustained attention to writing can being you in tune to your natural bodily working rhythms. Though I’ve been driving hard here—really hard—I’ve actually been getting a solid night’s sleep, at least 7 or 8 hours. Writing about nine hours a day, I’ve learned, seems to require that kind of nightly restoration. Today, moreover, as my stay was ending, I wrote for about four and a half hours in the morning and as I did so, realized I was coming within shouting distance ( another 5-7 hours) of the novel’s end. I knew I needed to bring to those hours my highest level of energy, my very best game. So I stopped, had a quick lunch and then took, of all things, a nap! I lay down in my tiny little bedroom, on my cozy little single bed, and closed my eyes without even setting an alarm; buoyed by a kind of preternatural confidence that I would wake up exactly when I needed to, ready to see my project through to the end. Fifty minutes later, that was exactly what happened.
I already knew this—all writers do—but in attending to the novel for sustained periods of time, I also regularly achieved “flow,” the artist’s mecca of well being in which ideas, characters, plot twists, sentences, words and phrases arrive unbidden that would not have come any other way. Of course this happens at other times during the year too, as long as I’m doing the work, ass in chair, as they say. But it seemed to happen a lot this week. The only other experience I can liken it to is National Novel Writing Month, which I participated in in November 2009 and which I highly recommend to students and peers alike. By committing to write a 50,000 word novel in thirty days, even though your daily writing stints may only be two or 3 hours, you are also committing to walking around in the world of your novel—consciously and subconsciously—pretty much 24-7 for an entire month. And walking around in that world will work wonders to bring about epiphanies and discoveries about the piece that simply would not have come about without the artificial environment NaNoWriMo creates. Writing for eight or nine hours a day for a week or two weeks or a month or two months away from all distractions and commitments works pretty much the same way. The novel has come together exactly as I hoped it would.
Now that week is behind me, I’m here to say; it was a game changer. I learned a great deal about me and my life as a teacher-writer. And while some of what I learned might be unique to me, some of it might not. Some of it might be useful for the readers of FWR who combine writing and teaching, writing and editing, writing and any number of other tasks to support their vocation and who need a little extra encouragement to take the next step and try a writer’s colony. It is no small thing to come face to face with one’s work with no distractions. And while it is not something I could do on constant basis: neither my temperament nor the chosen realities of my life would permit it—it is something I plan to incorporate into my writing year from now on.
Editor’s Comments First, nicely done! I think it's the perfect essay for September's teaching theme, and you adopted the exact right tone: personal, casual yet professional, and questioning. I also love that it's as much about your experience as it is about retreats as places. So we get both a narrative and a profile along with the analysis.
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> In fact, as I was reading this, the parts that stood out to me most were those narrative moments. Even without looking back at the text I can see you taking that 50-minute nap that's just long enough for you to rest before powering to the end, standing on your tiptoes under the mirror that's five inches too tall, turning on that old gas stove, etc. Those moments that took place in the setting of Dairy Hollow were what were most compelling to me as a reader because they illuminate (analyze) and illustrate (describe) simultaneously.
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> So before I offer line edits, I'd like to ask if you'd be willing to consider restructuring this piece as a narrative. I think that the "incidents" here (many of which already seem to be in rough, chronological order) would have more meaning if we witnessed them transpiring in the actual setting, rather than as a bullet-point-style list. Also, framing it as "What I learned" eliminates a bit of natural tension for me because the event is over already and you are "safe," so to speak. Whereas if we're proceeding day-by-day I'll be thinking the whole time, "Is she going to hate it? Is it going to work? Will she be productive or spend the whole time pacing in circles?"
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> Also, my experience at these residencies is that you settle into these sorts of things. That you have certain types of "immediate" realizations about yourself and your writing at the beginning and different, more complicated ones as the time passes. It's a cumulative effect. A process of accumulation. (I guess that's the same thing, isn't it?)
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> You could still consider dividing it. Perhaps by "Day 1," "Day 2," and so on. But regardless, I'd like to see a bit more of the setting--even if it's your room you never leave! That way, we can also get a sense of Dairy Hollow as a unique retreat. Right now, structured as a list, I fear some of these insights could have happened elsewhere. And that's true, of course--part of the essay's appeal is its universality. But if they also happen while you're more narratively engaged then we get both: a lyric description of place, coupled with a reflection of how that physical place is changing the writer.
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> Let me know what you think. This has the possibility of a really fantastic narrative meditation. I want more of you there, more of you in action, more of you getting back to your roots through the gift of sustained reflection.
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DRAFT 2/3 What I Learned on My Summer Vacation: A Writing Teacher at a Writing Colony Stephanie Vanderslice
I have a confession: at forty four and a writer for more than half my life, I had never been to a writing colony before this summer. Also a full time creative writing teacher, I’ve always been pretty adamant that it’s possible to do both well. So dividing my time between writing, teaching, and administering (a site of the National Writing Project) has always been a fact of life for me (not to mention the additional complications of a rich family life with a husband and two boys). Mostly, it does work pretty well. I’ve co-authored or written three books on teaching creative writing and a long list of essays on the subject, as well as personal essays, short stories, and a novel, all by carving out a certain amount of writing time on a daily—well, sometimes weekly—basis. Plus, there was always “May.” [JC1] Since our youngest son entered kindergarten six years ago, May has become the golden month for me and my husband, who is also a writer and academic. Classes are over and the kids are still in school. In other words, long stretches of time in my studio with an endless cup of coffee and my work and a blissfully quiet house—even with my husband at work in the next room. May was how Teaching Creative Writing to Undergraduates: A Practical Sourcebook (Fountainhead) and Rethinking Creative Writing (Professional and Higher) got finished. Well, two Mays for the latter, but you get the point. This is not to say the rest of the year was not productive—just not as peaceful[JC2] . But I had reached a crossroads with my novel. I was on the precipice of the third draft, and I was pleased with how it was going, but I also knew it needed to cohere better. To flow from beginning to end like a great swath of sumptuous cloth instead of a patchwork quilt[JC3] . To achieve this, it didn’t need an hour or two here and there, or even a regular three or four in glorious, much-anticipated May. It needed hours, many, many hours, of my undivided attention. In April, I started looking into writer’s colonies and was fortunate to find one that was only three hours away from me in central Arkansas: Dairy Hollow Writer’s Colony in Eureka Springs, the north central part of the state, near the Missouri border. When I sent off my application, I had no idea what to expect if I got in. I had come to believe that the piecework nature of my life—a little writing here, a little reading there, teach a class here, meet with a student there—suited my temperament, which has always been somewhat, shall we say, distracted (my husband recently heard a radio show on adult ADD and has since given me an amateur diagnosis). And when the acceptance arrived, I really began to wonder. I worried. Would I be able to put all that time to good use? Or would I spend hours staring at the wall? Worse, what if I succumbed to the temptations of the artsy Ozark town—antique shops, galleries, restaurants—practically at my doorstep? Would the solitude be a blessing or a curse? Day One: I am not worthy! I’ve started out a little behind; it’s taken me longer than I thought to get here on those windy mountain roads, so I ended up missing my appointment with the Colony Director to pick up my key. Not a great first impression, but she seemed understanding when I called and she kindly arranged to have my key and orientation packet left in the front door box. Picking up the packet, I meet writer Philip Finch, [INSERT A DESCRIPTION OF FRENCH AND THE BUILDING/STREET/ENVIRONMENT]. We chat for a few moments and then he directs me [location: across the street/down the road/across the field/around the corner] to my suite—the culinary suite, no less! This wasn’t the suite I was originally assigned, but I’ll take it. [JC4] It’s gorgeous—full of light, courtesy of many windows and the skylight in the writing/living room, with a gourmet kitchen to boot. I make a mental note to ask, when I next talk to the director, if this is really the suite I’m supposed to have. That said, the key did unlock the door. Apparently, the culinary suite is the one usually used by chefs and food writers. The only one of its kind at any writer’s colony in the US, according to an article left [INSERT where: on the marble countertop/glass coffee table/oak counter] It was renovated in 2003 in conjunction with Renovation Style magazine, along with several major donors, most notably Kitchen Aid. The kitchen is large but not too large (apparently a cavernous kitchen is exhausting for a chef), with state of the art appliances, and a gleaming six-burner gas stove I am afraid to touch, all in a lovely pale blue and gray color scheme that is echoed throughout the suite. After setting up my desk with everything I think I’ll need at the ready—computer, 1942 map of the five New York boroughs, a Time chronology of the 1940’s, and, in front of me, the timeline of the lives of all six of my major characters that has proved essential in the last several months—it’s time for dinner, in the main house below, [INSERT A CLAUSE DESCRIBING THE BUILDING AND/OR HOW YOU GET THERE—stairs, elevator, across the gravel parking lot]. I spot Philip [WHERE IS PHILIP? Sitting? Standing?] and head to where he is INSERT ACTION. I learn that dinner on the weekends, as well as breakfast and lunch during the week, is catch as catch can, an amalgam of leftovers from the previous week, and sandwiches from the bread and cold cuts in the central kitchen. [HOW DO YOU FEEL ABOUT THIS? ARE YOU RELIEVED BECAUSE YOU IMAGINED A LOT OF CHATTING OR SADDENED THAT IT’S NOT VERY SOCIAL? THIS IS A GREAT SPOT TO TALK ABOUT—IN A LINE OR TWO—WHAT YOUR EXPECTATIONS WERE FOR THE SOCIAL/PERSONAL SIDE OF THE THE WRITER’S RETREAT AS AN EXPERIENCE.] So I grab a quick dinner of peanut butter on toast and head back up to my suite to begin to make sense of my work and to ready everything for the first full day tomorrow. It’s evening now and the room is filled with DESCRIBE LIGHT. [Insert a few scenic descriptions of being IN the place. Can you hear birds? What do you see out the window? How does it feel to BE there in the moment? We need a “pause” here—Charles Baxter would call it “a pocket of silence.” Something to draw the reader’s attention and your meditation. Only a line or two.] After a quick call home to my husband to check in and let him know I arrived safely, I’m ready for bed and some solid reading time. To further my immersion in the time period I’m writing about (1920-1945 in the US and Germany, though mostly the US), I’ve brought two books set in the period: Ethan Canin’s Carry Me Across the Water, a past favorite, and Erika Dreifus’ Quiet Americans, which I’ve been looking forward to reading for months. But tonight, I don’t read for long; tired from the trip, I’m falling asleep. But excited to begin. Day 2: The Real Test The alarm goes off at 7am and I begin the routine I had planned the night before: make the coffee, shower and dress while it’s brewing, and be eating breakfast and enjoying my first cup by 7:15am. Catching up on the world via the state newspaper, the Arkansas Democrat Gazette, is usually part of my breakfast ritual but that’s not available here. There is wireless, however. I consider checking in to CNN.com for my daily dose of news and then decide against it. If there is anything I need to know, my husband will call me. Otherwise, I flip through a magazine with the first cup of coffee and head to my desk with the second. With no one else to pour cereal and milk for, no cat litter to change[JC5] —although I do make the bed; I’m an inveterate bed-maker at home—I’m at my desk by 7:45am Over the years, I’ve streamlined my morning routine from the hour and a half in those vain teenage years to about a half hour these days, enough to make myself presentable for work and the outside world and stave off the forces of gravity. But here I can get away with just a shower and some moisturizer since I’m not really going to see anyone, which suits me fine. And that seems the message from this suite anyway: the only mirror here is a tiny one in the equally tiny bathroom that hangs about five inches above my head. If I want to apply make-up or style my hair, I have to stand on tip-toes to do it. I’m here to work, to write, not to preen. Late in the morning, having kept myself at the desk by keeping the coffee coming—no big surprise there; Voltaire could have told me that—the Dairy Hollow director stops by with some news. The chef has taken ill, the result of her landlord’s overzealous use of mothballs, apparently. Philip and I are on our own for dinner that night, although the housekeeper will begin making our evening meals the following day. There is talk of taking us out for today’s dinner, but I am becoming so immersed in my work, with whether [INSERT REALLY SPECIFIC DETAIL ABOUT YOUR NOVEL THAT YOU WERE GRAPPLING WITH, (e.g., Sophia would have worn white gloves or kid ones to a Sunday church lunch)] that I’d just as soon stay in. Besides, there’s the gourmet kitchen to consider; might as well use it. So after a full, productive day of work, one filled with Berlin curio shops that make the quaint, Ozark town I step out into seem shockingly modern, I celebrate by heading out to the local grocery store for provisions for breakfast and lunch the rest of the week and a very simple dinner tonight. I’m a creature of habit when it comes to breakfast and lunch anyway; for years I’ve started my day with precisely two whole grain waffles—no toppings or accoutrements—and coffee; lunch is usually peanut butter on whole wheat toast or some other kind of very simple sandwich. It feels good to know I can count on my ritual foods even here[JC6] .
Day Two: Girls Who READ The second day flies by, perhaps even faster than the first. I’m feeling good about the work—the novel is coming together just as I hoped[JC7] [INSERT DETAILS ABOUT THE BOOK YOU’RE WORKING ON. We need to watch/feel the momentum building, see you figuring things out, inhabiting the landscape of this book more and more just as you do!] Tonight’s dinner was in the main house at six. While the director was extremely apologetic that we weren’t going to be the recipients of the usual chef’s talents due to the moth-ball incident, let me tell you, the housekeeper, who is from Prague, is a darn good cook. Our meal is a delicious juicy baked chicken, with parsleyed potatoes and fresh corn on the cob. It also gives me a chance to get to know Phillip Finch, the other writer here. Turns[JC8] out he’s a journalist-crime writer-nonfiction writer (check him out at http://phillipfinch.com/) who’s also published a novel and who’s here to work on his second, although apparently a recent crime discovery from a private detective friend of his is also demanding his attention and frequent cell phone calls to his agent. It also turns out that he grew up in College Park, Maryland, close to my husband’s stomping grounds. After dinner, I take a mile walk up the shady street, into town and back, on my husband’s suggestion when I mentioned I wasn’t getting out much. Strange that Eureka Springs is this lovely little artsy vacation town, green and shady, nestled in the backdrop of the Ozark hills but I’m spending most of my time holed up in my suite. Tonight I finish Carry Me Across the Water and realize, that because Quiet Americans is an even shorter book, it’s possible I might (Nook aside) run out of reading material before this retreat is over. As a writer and writing teacher, I’m also a word addict, but until I got here, I didn’t realize how unsustained my reading was, how often interrupted. Sure I carry the e-reader on me at all times; I find it difficult to pass even a brief period of unoccupied time without a book in front of my face. But that just what my reading experiences were; brief snatches of time that, while they added up, were in themselves disjointed, lacking in continuity and coherence. How could I write a sustained, enveloping body [JC9] of prose if my own reading experiences had recently become (except for holiday breaks and the occasional vacation) staccato and disconnected? Here, the lack of distractions, the lack of cable, regular internet and especially, for me, of radio (not much of a television hound, I am nonetheless, an utter NPR fanatic) has returned me to the kind of long hours of reading bliss I hadn’t experienced since I was a teenager, (no one invokes this phenomena better than Michelle Slatalla in her New York Times essay “I Wish I Could Read Like a Girl” http://www.nytimes.com/2009/01/01/fashion/01spy.html). Fortunately, the shelves of the “Culinary Suite” are well stocked with food memoirs that beckon if my own library runs out. Day Three: Finding Extra Hours It was another good day. I am about two thirds through the novel revision and realizing another benefit to this retreat is that unlike my typical writing spaces; home, office, work, even hotels, there’s no gym access here. At home I try to fit an hour workout into most days; a lifelong habit that seems necessary if I want to stay healthy and productive. However, it takes ten minutes to get to the university gym each way, as well as additional time to change in an out of workout clothes, to shower and chat, even briefly, with colleagues. You get the picture: one hour can quickly become two. And two hours is a relatively large chunk of a day. Since I’m only here for a week, I decide to ditch the daily workout (I know, what a sacrifice). Not only did I want those two hours for my writing, I also wanted to keep the interruptions to a minimum. And as beneficial as it is—usually—a workout is a major interruption. It’s been a hot week here too, close to 100 every day, and one thing you learn quickly in the South is that if you want to maintain any semblance of energy during the day, you’d better make your forays into the un-airconditioned world few and far between. Not a problem here. I stay in the suite from rising until dinner time, keeping my energy levels nice and high. Another delicious dinner tonight and more time to get to know Philip. He’s from Kansas but has spent some time in Arkansas and we have a few friends in common; the Mid-South/Mid-West literary world is not terribly big. He mentions tonight, too, that it’s nice that, for whatever reason, there are only two of us here right now, eliminating any of the posturing or position jockeying he imagines might take place during social gatherings at more populated writer’s colonies. I don’t know about that, since my experience with writer’s colonies is limited to this one, but I do know that as a relative introvert I cherish this solitude.[JC10] Day Four: There’s No Escaping It A narrative problem arose today, around mid-morning. During the year, when I am at my desk and hit a bump in the writing road, it’s easy to say, “Well, it’s almost time for that conference call/dentist appointment/committee meeting (ugh!) anyway—let me put this aside for now and think on it.” And while “thinking on it” often does work for me in my regular life, here, with nothing else to turn to, no other excuses, I’ve also learned that so does powering through, staring stubbornly at the screen until the next line finally comes along to get you back in the groove. So I sat there. I stared. I drank more coffee. And eventually, reached a solution. She would go to Dresden and find her niece, despite knowing it was a ridiculous and frivolous notion[JC11] . My suite looks out onto the main street and I’ve been keeping the blinds on the workroom window wide open most days to take advantage of the natural light. Today I realize maybe that isn’t such a great idea. Late in the afternoon, there’s a knock at the door. I answer cautiously to find a rather disheveled-looking young man on the doorstep. “Is this the writer’s colony?” He wants to know. “Yes,” “Can I come in for a while to rest and get out of this heat?” Can this stranger come in? Um, I don’t think so. “Actually, no,” I tell him. “I’m working right now. But I’d be happy to bring you a big glass of water.” “No, thanks,” he mutters, a little exasperated. “I’ve got water[JC12] .” Okay, then. Heart pounding, I close the door, checking twice that it’s locked and my cell phone is close by. Disheveled guy then proceeds to cross the street and sit on the curb, [JC13] so that he’s in effect staring into my picture window as I write, or try to anyway. I’m nervous and pretty annoyed at the interruption. Closing the blinds seems a little combative but finally, I do, making a mental note to keep them closed and counsel the next inhabitants of the suite to do the same. I guess I was a bit naïve to think I could allow myself to be on display like that. Tonight is the monthly Dairy Hollow Poet’s Luck, where members of the Eureka Springs literary community gather [JC14] to share work and food with each other. Philip and I are both scheduled to read. Everyone is kind and welcoming but I feel a little odd at first, like an island among all these groups of people who clearly know each other so well[JC15] . It’s nice to see such a large group enjoying literature and writing and just sharing. Even though this group is larger, there is still very little posturing, just a celebration of the word. Turns out my disheveled young man had a reason for showing up earlier; he was meeting up with a young woman he’d heard would be here at the Poet Luck, an ethereal young thing named Miranda after Shakespeare’s Miranda. She stands up to read a handwritten poem that rather amazes me in its mature use of language and its cadence. There are several wonderful readers, including another young woman, a writing and linguistics major at a college in New Mexico, who gets up to do some slam poetry, an older woman who reads a haunting story about a girl in a mental institution and a playwright who reads an excerpt from a very funny southern play that will be read next week at the Hollow. Wish I could be there to hear the whole thing. Finally the evening ends with, of all things, a ponytailed man singing a satirical and sorrowful song about Michael Jackson. There are a huge number of ponytailed men in Eureka Springs and they all look a little alike—kind, gentle, with those frizzy salt and pepper ponytails. Sort of like the boys who slouch in the back of my classroom with their baseball caps low on their heads; it’s sometimes hard to tell them apart[JC16] . Day 5: Finding the Rhythm Even just a week of sustained attention to writing can bring you in tune to your natural bodily working rhythms. Though I’ve been driving hard here—really hard—I’ve actually been getting a solid night’s sleep, at least seven or eight hours. Writing about nine hours a day, I’ve learned, seems to require that kind of nightly restoration. Today, moreover, as my stay was ending, I wrote for about four and a half hours in the morning and as I did so, realized I was coming within shouting distance (another five to seven hours) of the novel’s end. I knew I needed to bring to those hours my highest level of energy, my very best game. So I stopped, had a quick lunch and then took, of all things, a nap! I lay down in my tiny little bedroom, on my cozy little single bed, and closed my eyes without even setting an alarm; buoyed by a kind of preternatural confidence that I would wake up exactly when I needed to, ready to see my project through to the end. Fifty minutes later, that was exactly what happened. I already knew this—all writers do—but in attending to the novel for sustained periods of time, I also regularly achieved “flow,” the artist’s mecca of well being in which ideas, characters, plot twists, sentences, words and phrases arrive unbidden that would not have come any other way. Of course this happens at other times during the year too, as long as I’m doing the work, ass in chair, as they say. But it seemed to happen a lot this week. The only other experience I can liken it to is National Novel Writing Month, which I participated in in November 2009 and which I highly recommend to students and peers alike. By committing to write a 50,000 word novel in thirty days, even though your daily writing stints may only be two or three hours, you are also committing to walking around in the world of your novel—consciously and subconsciously—pretty much 24-7 for an entire month. And walking around in that world will work wonders to bring about epiphanies and discoveries about the piece that simply would not have come about without the artificial environment NaNoWriMo creates. Writing for eight or nine hours a day for a week or two weeks or a month or two months away from all distractions and commitments works pretty much the same way. The novel has come together exactly as I hoped it would. Now that week is behind me, I’m here to say that it was a game changer. I learned a great deal about me and my life as a teacher-writer. It is no small thing to come face to face with one’s work with no distractions. And while it is not something I could do on constant basis— neither my temperament nor the chosen realities of my life would permit it—it is something I plan to incorporate into my writing year from now on. Editor’s Comments Draft 3 As you'll see in my notes (in track changes mode on the manuscript--let me know if you can't see my margin comments), I just just a few things I'd like to see in the final draft:
1. A bit more on your novel--specific details, regardless of whether they're in context. We don't need to even know the plot or characters! But every one in a while (as you'll see the mock-up, dummy lines I've inserted) something that's super concrete and exact. Something that gives us a glimpse of the project. We'll feel like we're watching you immerse yourself in the piece.
2. A bit more scenic details about the lay of the land, the environment, and what's where.
3. Musings that reflect more on practice as a writer and just a bit less so on day-to-day unless it's ABOUT being a writer.
4. A few lines sprinkled here or there that reflect on EXPECTATIONS. After all, you've heard about colonies for 20 years. When were little moments that it did or did not meet expectations?
Great! Thanks so much! I think these will be fairly quick fixes--just flourishes and 1-2 line expansions.
And though you've been VERY patient with me the last week, I'm hoping to ask you to turn this around fairly quickly. I'd love to get this to my Assistant Editor for layout and coding next week. What do you think? Is this something you might have a little time for this weekend? Or at the very beginning of next week? I think we'll be done with these final tweaks. Otherwise, it's super solid and exactly what I was after. Thank you! I think it's going to be a perfect fit with our September content.
Best, Draft 4/5 What I Learned on My Summer Vacation: A Writing Teacher at a Writing Colony Stephanie Vanderslice
I have a confession: at forty four and a writer for more than half my life, I had never been to a writing colony before this summer. Also a full time creative writing teacher, I’ve always been pretty adamant that it’s possible to do both well. So dividing my time between writing, teaching, and administering (a site of the National Writing Project[JC17] ) has always been a fact of life for me (not to mention the additional complications of a rich family life with a husband and two boys). Mostly, it does work pretty well. I’ve co-authored or written three books on teaching creative writing and a long list of essays on the subject, as well as personal essays, short stories, and a novel, all by carving out a certain amount of writing time on a daily—well, sometimes weekly—basis. Plus, there was always “May.” Since our youngest son entered kindergarten six years ago, May has become the golden month for me and my husband, who is also a writer and academic. Classes are over and the kids are still in school. In other words, long stretches of time in my studio with an endless cup of coffee and my work and a blissfully quiet house—even with my husband at work in the next room. May was how Teaching Creative Writing to Undergraduates: A Practical Sourcebook (Fountainhead) and Rethinking Creative Writing (Professional and Higher) got finished. Well, two Mays for the latter, but you get the point. This is not to say the rest of the year was not productive—just not as peaceful. But I had reached a crossroads with my novel. I was on the precipice of the third draft, and I was pleased with how it was going, but I also knew it needed to cohere better. To flow from beginning to end like a great swath of sumptuous cloth instead of a patchwork quilt. To achieve this, it didn’t need an hour or two here and there, or even a regular three or four in glorious, much-anticipated May. It needed hours, many, many hours, of my undivided attention. In April, I started looking into writer’s colonies and was fortunate to find one that was only three hours away from me in central Arkansas: Dairy Hollow Writer’s Colony in Eureka Springs, the north central part of the state, near the Missouri border. When I sent off my application, I had no idea what to expect if I got in. I had come to believe that the piecework nature of my life—a little writing here, a little reading there, teach a class here, meet with a student there—suited my temperament, which has always been somewhat, shall we say, distracted (my husband recently heard a radio show on adult ADD and has since given me an amateur diagnosis). And when the acceptance arrived, I really began to wonder. I worried. Would I be able to put all that time to good use? Or would I spend hours staring at the wall? Worse, what if I succumbed to the temptations of the artsy Ozark town—antique shops, galleries, restaurants—practically at my doorstep? Would the solitude be a blessing or a curse? Day One: I am not worthy! I’ve started out a little behind; it’s taken me longer than I thought to get here on those windy mountain roads, so I ended up missing my appointment with the Colony Director to pick up my key. Not a great first impression, but she seemed understanding when I called and subsequently arranged to have my key and orientation packet left in the front door box. Picking up the packet, I meet writer Philip Finch, a very tall, serious-looking guy with an incongruously boyish face and short, graying brown hair who seems to be a bit distracted, or, rather in full writing mode. He’s friendly though. We chat for a few moments and then he directs me to my suite upstairs. Once a bed-and-breakfast run by food writer Cresent Dragonwagon and her writer-husband, the late Ned Shank, Dairy Hollow is a large house built into the side of a hill at the edge of the town of Eureka Springs. There are suites upstairs and down, but the entrance, as well as the kitchen, dining, and meeting areas, are all on the lower level—the bottom of the hill, to speak. My suite is upstairs. And since there are no inside stairs the connect the rooms, I head up the hill, around the side of the house along a gravel path and a set of wooden stairs beautifully landscaped with wildflowers. It turns out I have the culinary suite. Not the suite I was originally assigned, but I’ll take it. It’s gorgeous—full of light, courtesy of many windows and the skylight in the writing/living room, with a gourmet kitchen to boot. I make a mental note to ask, when I next talk to the director, if this is really the suite I’m supposed to have. That said, the key did unlock the door. Apparently, the culinary suite is the one usually used by chefs and food writers. The only one of its kind at any writer’s colony in the US, according to an article left on the overstuffed sage green armchair in the work/sitting room. It was renovated in 2003 in conjunction with Renovation Style magazine, along with several major donors, most notably Kitchen Aid. The kitchen is large but not too large (apparently a cavernous kitchen is exhausting for a chef), with state of the art appliances, and a gleaming six-burner gas stove I am afraid to touch, all in a lovely pale blue and gray color scheme that is echoed throughout the suite. After setting up my desk with everything I think I’ll need at the ready—computer, 1942 map of the five New York boroughs, a Time chronology of the 1940’s, and, in front of me, and the timeline of the lives of all six of my major characters that has proved essential in the last several months—it’s time for dinner, in the main house below, so back I go, carefully, down the gravel path and the wooden stairs. Once there, I spot Philip making a sandwich at the long, stainless steel counter that dominates the industrial kitchen. As he grabs a handful of homemade chocolate chip cookies to add to his plate, he explains that dinner on the weekends, as well as breakfast and lunch during the week, is catch as catch can, an amalgam of leftovers from the previous week, and sandwiches from the bread and cold cuts in the central kitchen. This is perfect for me. My images of writers colonies have a bit of a “summer camp for grown ups” cast to them, a least two meals a day in groups, with the inevitable “in” groups and “out” groups. A bit of an introvert, socializing at dinner is fine with me but it’s also enough. So I grab a quick dinner of peanut butter on toast and head back up to my suite to begin to make sense of my work and ready everything for the first full day tomorrow. It’s evening now and the room is growing dark as the sun disappears behind the trees. It’s still hot and the street outside is quiet but for the occasional car that swoops around the curving road outside my window, the headlights briefly illuminating the pale, bottle-blue walls. After a quick call home to my husband to check in and let him know I arrived safely, I’m ready for bed and some solid reading time. To further my immersion in the time period I’m writing about (1920-1945 in the US and Germany, though mostly the US), I’ve brought two books set in the period: Ethan Canin’s Carry Me Across the Water, a past favorite, and Erika Dreifus’ Quiet Americans, which I’ve been looking forward to reading for months. But tonight, I don’t read for long; tired from the trip, I’m falling asleep. Though I’m excited to begin. Day 2: The Real Test The alarm goes off at 7am and I begin the routine I had planned the night before: make the coffee, shower and dress while it’s brewing, and be eating breakfast and enjoying my first cup by 7:15am. Catching up on the world via the state newspaper, the Arkansas Democrat Gazette, is usually part of my breakfast ritual but that’s not available here. There is wireless, however. I consider checking in to CNN.com for my daily dose of news and then decide against it. If there is anything I need to know, my husband will call me. Otherwise, I flip through a magazine with the first cup of coffee and head to my desk with the second. With no one else to pour cereal and milk for, no cat litter to change—although I do make the bed; I’m an inveterate bed-maker at home—I’m at my desk by 7:45am. Over the years, I’ve streamlined my morning routine from the hour and a half in those vain teenage years to about a half hour these days, enough to make myself presentable for work and the outside world and stave off the forces of gravity. But here I can get away with just a shower and some moisturizer since I’m not really going to see anyone, which suits me fine. And that seems the message from this suite anyway: the only mirror here is a tiny one in the equally tiny bathroom that hangs about five inches above my head. If I want to apply make-up or style my hair, I have to stand on tip-toes to do it. I’m here to work, to write, not to preen. Late in the morning, having kept myself at the desk by keeping the coffee coming—no big surprise there; Voltaire could have told me that—the Dairy Hollow director stops by with some news. The chef has taken ill, the result of her landlord’s overzealous use of mothballs, apparently. Philip and I are on our own for dinner that night, although the housekeeper will begin making our evening meals the following day. There is talk of taking us out for today’s dinner, but I am becoming so immersed in my work—I’m almost up to the first turning point, when Julia finds the letter; I’d just as soon stay in and keep going. Besides, there’s the gourmet kitchen to consider; might as well use it. So after a full, productive day of work, one filled with Flushing delicatessens and soda fountains that make the quaint, Ozark town I step out into seem shockingly modern, I celebrate by heading out to the local grocery store for provisions for breakfast and lunch the rest of the week and a very simple dinner tonight.
Day Two: Girls Who READ[JC18] The second day flies by, perhaps even faster than the first. I’m feeling good about the work—the novel is coming together just as I hoped and I feel almost breathless as I close in on the crucial scene with Julia on the docks, running toward the steamship to Bremerhaven. I’m getting so caught up in the story I feel as if I’m reading it for the first time. I can’t help but think this bodes well, since I’ve been working on this novel long enough that it feels like part of my own history. Though since it’s set in Queens, New York, a place I grew up in, and imagines a part of my great grandmother’s story I always wanted to know more about, I suppose it is[JC19] . Tonight’s dinner was in the main house at six. While the director was extremely apologetic that we weren’t going to be the recipients of the usual chef’s talents due to the moth-ball incident, let me tell you, the housekeeper, who is from Prague, is a darn good cook. Our meal is a delicious ,juicy baked chicken, with parsleyed potatoes and fresh corn on the cob. It also gives me a chance to get to know Phillip Finch, the other writer here. Turns out he’s a journalist-crime writer-nonfiction writer (check him out at http://phillipfinch.com/) who’s also published a novel and who’s here to work on his second, although apparently a recent crime discovery from a private detective friend of his is also demanding his attention and frequent cell phone calls to his agent. It also turns out that he grew up in College Park, Maryland, close to my husband’s stomping grounds. Although I was reluctant to leave my desk, a common theme of the week, it’s nice to sit at the long wood table and talk to another human being, even if it’s just the two of us. We even get into a little shop talk; a veteran journalist, Philip tells me what his take is on the current sea changes in publishing. As well published as he is, apparently he thinks self-publishing, especially for series fiction, has a great future[JC20] . After dinner, I take a mile walk up the shady street along grand Victorian painted ladies and smaller craftsman gems, into town and back, on my husband’s suggestion when I mentioned I wasn’t getting out much. Strange that Eureka Springs is this lovely little artsy vacation town, green and shady, nestled in the backdrop of the Ozark hills but I’m spending most of my time holed up in my suite. Tonight I finish Carry Me Across the Water and realize, that because Quiet Americans is an even shorter book, it’s possible I might (Nook aside) run out of reading material before this retreat is over. As a writer and writing teacher, I’m also a word addict, but until I got here, I didn’t realize how unsustained my reading was, how often interrupted. Sure I carry the e-reader on me at all times; I find it difficult to pass even a brief period of unoccupied time without a book in front of my face[JC21] . But that just what my reading experiences were; brief snatches of time that, while they added up, were in themselves disjointed, lacking in continuity and coherence. How could I write a sustained, enveloping body of prose if my own reading experiences had recently become (except for holiday breaks and the occasional vacation) staccato and disconnected? Here, the lack of distractions, the lack of cable, regular internet and especially, for me, of radio (I am an utter NPR fanatic) has returned me to the kind of long hours of reading bliss I hadn’t experienced since I was a teenager. [Side note: no one invokes this phenomena better than Michelle Slatalla in her New York Times essay “I Wish I Could Read Like a Girl” http://www.nytimes.com/2009/01/01/fashion/01spy.html).] Fortunately, the shelves of the “Culinary Suite” are well stocked with food memoirs that beckon if my own library runs out. Day Three: Finding Extra Hours It was another good day. I am about two thirds through the novel revision and realizing another benefit to this retreat is that unlike my typical writing spaces—home, office, work, even hotels—there’s no gym access here. At home I try to fit an hour workout into most days; a lifelong habit that seems necessary if I want to stay healthy and productive. But since I’m only here for a week, I decide to ditch the daily workout. (I know, what a sacrifice.) As beneficial as it is—usually—a workout is a major interruption. It’s been a hot week here too, close to 100 every day, and one thing you learn quickly in the South is that if you want to maintain any semblance of energy during the day, you’d better make your forays into the un-airconditioned world few and far between. Not a problem here. I stay in the suite from rising until dinnertime, keeping my energy levels nice and high. Another delicious dinner tonight [JC22] and more time to get to know Philip. He’s from Kansas but has spent some time in Arkansas and we have a few friends in common; the Mid-South/Mid-West literary world is not terribly big. He mentions tonight, too, that it’s nice that, for whatever reason, there are only two of us here right now, eliminating any of the posturing or position jockeying he imagines might take place during social gatherings at more populated writer’s colonies. Truth be told, my knowledge of writer’s colonies comes from stories of Cheever’s infamous drinking and debauchery at Yaddo, so I too am relieved. The absence of pressure to be hip or entertaining gives me only that much more energy to lavish on the novel. Day Four: There’s No Escaping It A narrative problem arose today, around mid-morning. During the year, when I am at my desk and hit a bump in the writing road, it’s easy to say, “Well, it’s almost time for that conference call/dentist appointment/committee meeting (ugh!) anyway—let me put this aside for now and think on it.” And while “thinking on it” often does work for me in my regular life, here, with nothing else to turn to, no other excuses, I’ve also learned that so does powering through, staring stubbornly at the screen until the next line finally comes along to get you back in the groove. So I sat there. I stared. I drank more coffee. And eventually, reached a solution. Julia would take her time with her big decision, even taking a tour of Calvary cemetery as she considered her options[JC23] . My suite looks out onto the main street and I’ve been keeping the blinds on the workroom window wide open most days to take advantage of the natural light. Today I realize maybe that isn’t such a great idea. Late in the afternoon, there’s a knock at the door. I answer cautiously to find a rather disheveled-looking young man on the doorstep. “Is this the writer’s colony?” He wants to know. “Yes,” “Can I come in for a while to rest and get out of this heat?” Can this stranger come in? Um, I don’t think so. “Actually, no,” I tell him. “I’m working right now. But I’d be happy to bring you a big glass of water.” “No, thanks,” he mutters, a little exasperated. “I’ve got water.” Okay, then. Heart pounding, I close the door, checking twice that it’s locked and my cell phone is close by. Disheveled guy then proceeds to sit at the foot of the hill across the road, so that he’s in effect staring into my picture window as I write, or try to anyway. I’m nervous and pretty annoyed at the interruption. Closing the blinds seems a little combative but finally, I do, making a mental note to keep them closed and counsel the next inhabitants of the suite to do the same. I guess I was a bit naïve to think I could allow myself to be on display like that. If this had been a story…[insert some imagining here, perhaps? And then allow that to transition us into the next paragraph. Or back to work with something like “but it’s not. The fictive world is at my desk, and I happily return to Julia’s New York in the years before the war[JC24] .”] The[JC25] only requirement of the colony—other than writing—is that recipients give a reading of their work in-progress. Tonight is the monthly Dairy Hollow Poet’s Luck, where members of the Eureka Springs literary community gather to share work and food with each other in the dining room and meeting area, a great mission-style room capacious enough to comfortably hold about twenty-five people and a baby grand piano in the corner. Philip and I are both scheduled to read. Everyone is kind and welcoming but I feel a little odd at first, like an island among all these groups of people who clearly know each other so well. I read in the local paper there’s a serious problem with the deer population invading the town, so I ask some of the residents about it as a way of making conversation. It’s nice to see such a large group enjoying literature and writing and just sharing. Even though this group is larger, there is still very little posturing, just a celebration of the word. Turns out my disheveled young man had a reason for showing up earlier; he was meeting up with a young woman he’d heard would be here at the Poet Luck, an ethereal young thing named Miranda, “after Shakespeare’s Miranda,” she tells me as she shakes my hand. She stands up to read a handwritten poem that rather amazes me in its mature use of language and its cadence. There are several wonderful readers, including another young woman, a writing and linguistics major at a college in New Mexico, who gets up to do some slam poetry, an older woman who reads a haunting story about a girl in a mental institution and a playwright who reads an excerpt from a very funny southern play that will be read next week at the Hollow. Wish I could be there to hear the whole thing. Finally the evening ends with, of all things, a ponytailed man taking a seat at the baby grand and belting out a a satirical and sorrowful song about Michael Jackson’s death that he wrote himself. There are a huge number of ponytailed men in Eureka Springs and they all look a little alike—kind, gentle, with those frizzy salt and pepper ponytails. Sort of like the boys who slouch in the back of my classroom with their baseball caps low on their heads; it’s sometimes hard to tell them apart. Day 5: Finding the Rhythm Even just a week of sustained attention to writing can bring you in tune to your natural bodily working rhythms. Though I’ve been driving hard here—really hard—I’ve actually been getting a solid night’s sleep, at least seven or eight hours. Writing about nine hours a day, I’ve learned, seems to require that kind of nightly restoration. Today, moreover, as my stay is ending, I write for about four and a half hours in the morning and as I do so, realize I am coming within shouting distance (another five to seven hours) of the novel’s end. I know I need to bring to those hours my highest level of energy, my very best game. So I stopp, have a quick lunch and then take, of all things, a nap! I lie down in my tiny little bedroom, on my cozy little single bed, and close my eyes without even setting an alarm; buoyed by a kind of preternatural confidence that I will wake up exactly when I need to, ready to see my project through to the end. Fifty minutes later, that is exactly what happens. I already knew this—all writers do—but in attending to the novel for sustained periods of time, I also regularly achieved “flow,” the artist’s mecca of well being in which ideas, characters, plot twists, sentences, words and phrases arrive unbidden that would not have come any other way. Of course this happens at other times during the year too, as long as I’m doing the work, ass in chair, as they say. But it seems to have happened a lot this week. The only other experience I can liken it to is National Novel Writing Month, which I participated in in November 2009 and which I highly recommend to students and peers alike. By committing to write a 50,000 word novel in thirty days, even though your daily writing stints may only be two or three hours, you are also committing to walking around in the world of your novel—consciously and subconsciously—pretty much 24-7 for an entire month. And walking around in that world will work wonders to bring about epiphanies and discoveries about the piece that simply would not have come about without the artificial environment NaNoWriMo creates. Writing for eight or nine hours a day for a week or two weeks or a month or two months away from all distractions and commitments works pretty much the same way. The novel has come together exactly as I hoped it would. Now that the week is behind me, I’m here to say that it was a game changer. I learned a great deal about me and my life as a teacher-writer. It is no small thing to come face to face with one’s work with no distractions. And while it is not something I could do on constant basis— neither my temperament nor the chosen realities of my life would permit it—it is something I plan to incorporate into my writing year from now on.
Editor’s Comments Dear Steph,
Bravo! This was exactly what I was looking for. Thanks so much for getting it to me ahead of schedule.
As you'll see, I've only got a teeny-tiny little bit more that I'd like you to add about your book. I think being aware of (and a part of) what you're working on there really adds a layer of intimacy for the reader, to say nothing of inclusion. We feel like insiders. I think it really makes the piece "pop" for lack of a better word. I, too, feel invested in the decisions of Julia, even though I've only had the tiniest of sketches. So take a look at the second half of the essay where I've pointed out just a couple of places that could benefit from an extra line or two.
Otherwise, we're done! Thank you somuch.
Lastly, would you mind sending the following with this last draft:
1. A 1-2 line teaser (in the third person) for our home-page excerpt.
2. Any further links or "extras" that you'd like us to add in the "further links and resources" section. I'll put the essay you referred to by Slatalla, as well as one to Phillip's site. Anything else? Just let me know.
FINAL PUBLISHED DRAFT: [JC1]HA! So true… [JC2]Stephanie: I’ve pared back some of the parentheticals as they’re pretty heavy in these first few paragraphs. [JC3]NICE! [JC4]STEPH: Having trouble visualizing this—is it one big house? Or multiple buildings? [JC5]NICE! [JC6]Steph: You’ll talk about sustained reading later. [JC7]Steph: how about a clause here that reveals a tiny insight or bit of progress that’s specific to your novel, or a scene you conquered. Anything that’s super specific. [JC8]Is there anyone else besides you here? Or just the two of you.
Also, give us just a few descriptive details abou the room—what sort of tables, light, trays or plates, wood or linoleum…just something to set the scene. [JC9]GOOD! Exactly right--writerly self-awareness and self-reflection on process. [JC10]Ah, yes! I’d almost forgotten this was your first time. Can we have one or two more sprinkles earlier in the text about expectations that had been foiled. For example, did you expect more writers? More drinking? A pool table? Whatever. [JC11]Steph: As I mentioned earlier, I think we need to catch little glimpses of your novel. Just sketches, like this placeholder sentence here. Something that’s distinct and concrete and YOURS. [JC12]How strange! [JC13]I didn’t realize the building was in town…for some reason I imagined it in a field of tucked up against a stand of trees, with paths to other buildings and the main place you eat. We’ll have some photos so that won’t be a big deal. But maybe upon your arrive give us a 1-2 line sketch of the lay of the land. [JC14]Where? What is the physical space like? GIVE US DESCRIPTIVE DETAILS. [JC15]Nice! [JC16]Nice! [JC17]Is there a particular Site, Steph? Or should we link to the National Writing Project in general? [JC18]Should this be CAPS? [JC19]Steph: Can you expand this just a touch? Maybe 3-4 lines of how you came to the story, what intrigues you about it, and how only this SUSTAINED immersion at the colony is somehow allowing you to descend into the story. It’s impressive that you are getting into the zones so quickly, after all! Especially with your fears that you wouldn’t. Just want a bit more before you get up for the next meal. [JC20]Do you feel the same? Or, give me 1-2 more lines from Philip. [JC21]Maybe a half line or fragment linking back to Philip’s comment about self-publishing, as I assume he also means digitally? This would create linkage between two paragraphs. [JC22]What did you eat? Insert “of…” [JC23]One more line on the novel and its plot for pacing. We jump to next paragraph a bit quickly, which feels abrupt. Maybe even have you look out the window trying to sort through something, or pace around the room. We need a cleaner transition TO the open window and this odd encounter. How strange, right? [JC24]Something here about the intersection of the fictive and “real” world. See suggestions in text. [JC25]SOMETHING HERE ABOUT HOW IT CAME TO BE THAT YOU WERE READING THIS NIGHT. This is my guess, yes?
At the bottom, you'll find a link to the published essay.
Revision Package
Draft #1
What I Learned on My Summer Vacation: A Writing Teacher at a Writing Colony
Stephanie Vanderslice
I have a confession to make. At forty four and a writer for more than half my life, I had never been to a writing colony before. Also a full time creative writing teacher, I’ve always been pretty adamant that it’s possible to do both well. So dividing my time between writing, teaching and administering (a site of the National Writing Project) has always been a fact of life for me (not to mention the additional complications of a rich family life with a husband and two boys). Mostly, it does work pretty well. I’ve co-written or written three books on teaching creative writing and a long list of essays on the subject, as well as personal essays, short stories, and a novel, all by carving out a certain amount of time on a daily, (well, sometimes weekly basis) to put in the hours on my own writing. Plus, there was always “May.”
Ever since our youngest son entered kindergarten six years ago, May has become the golden month for my husband (also a fellow writer and academic) and me. Classes are over and the kids are still in school. In other words—long stretches of time at home in my studio with an endless cup of coffee and my work and a blissfully quiet house—even with my husband at work in the next room. May was how Teaching Creative Writing to Undergraduates: A Practical Sourcebook (Fountainhead) and Rethinking Creative Writing (Professional and Higher) got finished (well, two Mays for the latter, actually). This is not to say the rest of the year was not productive—just not as peaceful.
But I had reached a crossroads with my novel. I was on the precipice of the third draft and while I was pleased with how it was going, it needed to cohere better. To flow from beginning to end like a great swath of sumptuous cloth instead of a patchwork quilt. To achieve this, it didn’t need an hour or two here and there, or even a regular three or four in glorious, much-anticipated May. It needed hours, many, many hours, of my undivided attention.
In April, I started looking into writer’s colonies and was fortunate to find one that was only three hours away from me in central Arkansas, Dairy Hollow Writer’s Colony in Eureka Springs, the north central part of the state, near the Missouri border. I sent off my application and received my acceptance just a week later. I continued to work on the novel and several other pieces through May, directed the summer institute of the Great Bear Writing Project for teachers as I do each June and looked forward to my week at Dairy Hollow in July, a week of just me and the novel.
I had no idea what to expect. I had come to believe that the piecework nature of my life—a little writing here, a little reading there, teach a class here, meet with a student there—suited my temperament, which has always been a somewhat, shall we say, distracted ((my husband recently heard a radio show on adult ADD and has since given me an amateur diagnosis). So I wondered. I worried. Would I be able to put all that time to good use? Or would I spend hours staring at the wall or worse, succumb to the temptations of the artsy Ozark town—antique shops, galleries, restaurants—practically at my doorstep? Would the solitude be a blessing or a curse?
Day One: I am not worthy!
I’ve started out a little behind; it took me much longer to get here than I thought it would (curse those windy mountain roads) so I ended up missing my appointment with the Colony Director to pick up my key. Not a great first impression but fortunately she seemed understanding and left my key orientation packet in the front door box.
Met writer Philip Finch, the only other resident right now, as I was picking up the packet and he kindly directed me to my suite—the culinary suite no less! This wasn’t the suite I was originally assigned, but I’ll take it. It’s gorgeous—full of light, courtesy of many windows and the skylight in the writing/living room, with a gourmet kitchen to boot. I make a mental note to ask, when I next talk to the director, if this is really the suite I’m supposed to have—although the key did unlock the door.
Apparently, the culinary suite is the one usually used by chefs and food writers. The only one of its kind at any writer’s colony in the US, according to the article left in the suite, it was renovated in 2003 in conjunction with Renovation Style magazine, along with several major donors, most notably Kitchen Aid. The kitchen was designed, after consultation with several professional chefs and food writers, to be large but not too large (apparently a cavernous kitchen is exhausting for a chef), with state of the art appliances, and a gleaming six burner gas stove I am afraid to touch, all in a lovely pale blue and gray color scheme that is echoed throughout the suite.
After setting up my desk with everything I think I’ll need at the ready: computer, 1942 map of the five New York boroughs, a Time chronology of the 1940’s, and in front of me, the timeline of the lives of all six of my major characters that has proved essential in the last several months, it’s time for dinner, in the main house below. Here I meet Philip again and learn that dinner on the weekends, as well as breakfast and lunch during the week, is catch as catch can, an amalgam of leftovers from the previous week, and sandwiches from the bread and cold cuts in the central kitchen. I grab a quick dinner of peanut butter on toast and head back up to my suite to begin to make sense of my work and to ready everything for the first full day tomorrow. A quick call home to my husband to check in and let him know I arrived safely and I’m ready for bed and some solid reading time. To further my immersion in the time period I’m writing about—1920-1945 in the US and Germany (mostly the US), I’ve brought two books set in the period, Ethan Canin’s Carry Me Across the Water, a past favorite, and Erika Dreifus’ Quiet Americans, which I’ve been looking forward to reading for months..
It’s interesting how well-designed this suite is for not only culinary writers (re: sizable but not too sizable kitchen) but also writers in general—the workspace/living room is capacious, bright and comfortable while the bedroom is small and snug—which makes perfect sense since all I’ll do is sleep and read there. And tonight, I don’t even read for long; tired from the trip, I don’t get very far in Carry Me Across the Water before falling asleep.
Day 2: The Real Test
The alarm goes off at 7 and I begin the routine I planned the night before: make the coffee, shower and dress while it’s brewing, and I’m eating breakfast and enjoying my first cup by 7:15. Catching up on the world via the state newspaper, the Arkansas Democrat Gazette , is usually part of my breakfast ritual but that’s not available here. There is wireless, however. I consider checking in to CNN.com for my daily dose of news and then decide against it. If there is anything I need to know, my husband will call me, otherwise, I flip through a magazine with the first cup of coffee and head to my desk with the second.
Up at 7, at my desk at 7:45; no one else to pour cereal and milk for, no cat litter to change—although I do make the bed; I’m an inveterate bed-maker at home. Also a much curtailed morning grooming ritual—just a shower and some moisturizer since I’m not really going to see anyone—which suits me fine. Over the years, I’ve streamlined my morning routine from the hour and a half in those vain teenage years to about a half hour these days, enough to make myself presentable for work and the outside world and stave off the forces of gravity. Still, even streamlined I’ve always found the routine pretty boring and envied my husband’s ten minute shower, dress schedule. In this suite, however, the message is fairly clear: there are no mirrors save a tiny one in the equally tiny bathroom that hangs about five inches above my head. If I want to apply make-up or style my hair, I have to stand on tip-toes to do it. I’m here to work, to write, not to preen.
The key to staying at my desk, strangely enough, seems to be keeping the coffee coming. At home I only allow myself two cups in the morning; here, all bets are off and having some brew to sip is reward enough to stay on task and keep me going. No big discoveries there; Voltaire could have told me that.
Late in the morning, the Dairy Hollow director stops by with some news. The chef has taken ill, the result of her landlord’s overzealous use of mothballs, apparently. Philip and I are on our own for dinner that night, although the housekeeper will begin making our evening meals the following day. There is talk of taking us out for today’s dinner, but I am becoming so immersed in my work I’d just as soon stay in. Besides, there’s the gourmet kitchen to consider; might as well use it.
After a full, productive day of work, I celebrate by heading out to the local grocery store for provisions for breakfast and lunch the rest of the week and a very simple dinner tonight. I’m a creature of habit when it comes to breakfast and lunch anyway; for years I’ve started my day with precisely two whole grain waffles—no toppings or accoutrements—and coffee; lunch is usually peanut butter on whole wheat toast or some other kind of very simple sandwich. It feels good to know I can count on my ritual foods even here.
Nine hours of writing leaves my brain pretty fried so I know I’ve got to spend the evening doing something else to “fill the well,” as my former teacher, writer Richard Bausch says. So after dinner and a check in with the family I settle in with Carry Me Across the Water and luxuriate now not in writing but some nice, quiet reading time. Considering the books to pack for this retreat was a big decision (even though I also brought my Nook, so with the wireless here I’m technically never far from a bookstore). I hesitated over Carry Me Across the Water because even though I’m fond of it, I have read it before. I’m a notoriously poor re-reader—that tell-tale impatient distractibility strikes again when I allow myself to think about all the other new-to-me books out there begging to be read and I begin to lose interest. Fortunately, it doesn’t take long to become completely absorbed in Canin’s compelling tale all over again and savoring it in this way—as well as paying close attention to his writerly moves— is pure pleasure.
Day Two: Girls Who Wear Glasses
The second day flies by, perhaps even faster than the first. I’m feeling good about the work—the novel is coming together just as I hoped—and making a few more realizations about myself. One is that this kind of sustained close work demands my glasses—no excuses. Now, if you’re someone like my husband, who requires glasses or contacts to actually see the world, you’re not going to be too sympathetic here. Since adolescence I’ve had vision issues that require glasses for close work, reading, writing, paper grading, etc. but because I could see, more or less, without them, I was extremely lazy about wearing them. Not vain—I actually like myself in glasses—just lazy. Reaching into my purse or desk drawer, opening the case and slipping them on seemed to take so long that in my rush to read (that tell-tale impatience rearing its head again) the glasses usually got abandoned in the shuffle. Besides, most of my reading is for short periods (more about that later) so I could get by without them. Here though, after that first four-hour stint in front of the computer, it became pretty obvious: the glasses were not an option but a necessity if I was going to make it through the week. Fortunately, even though I can be lazy about wearing them, I never go anywhere without them.
Tonight’s dinner was in the main house at 6. While the director was extremely apologetic that we weren’t going to be the recipients of the usual chef’s talents due to the moth-ball incident, let me tell you, the housekeeper, who is from Prague, is a darn good cook. Our meal is a delicious juicy baked chicken, with parsleyed potatoes and fresh corn on the cob. It also gives me a chance to get to know Phillip Finch, the other writer here. Turns out he’s a journalist-crime writer-nonfiction writer (check him out at http://phillipfinch.com/) who’s also published a novel and who’s here to work on his second, although apparently a recent crime discovery from a private detective friend of his is also demanding his attention and frequent cell phone calls to his agent. It also turns out that he grew up in College Park, Maryland, close to my husband’s stomping grounds.
After dinner, I take a mile walk up the shady street, into town and back, on my husband’s suggestion when I mentioned I wasn’t getting out much. Strange that Eureka Springs is this lovely little artsy vacation town, green and shady, nestled in the backdrop of the Ozark hills but I’m spending most of my time holed up in my suite. Tonight I finish Carry Me Across the Water and realize, that because Quiet Americans is an even shorter book, it’s possible I might (Nook aside) run out of reading material before this retreat is over. As a writer and writing teacher, I’m also a word addict, but until I got here, I didn’t realize how unsustained my reading was, how often interrupted. Sure I carry the e-reader on me at all times; I find it difficult to pass even a brief period of unoccupied time without a book in front of my face. But that just what my reading experiences were; brief snatches of time that, while they added up, were in themselves disjointed, lacking in continuity and coherence. How could I write a sustained, enveloping body of prose if my own reading experiences had recently become (except for holiday breaks and the occasional vacation) staccato and disconnected? Here, the lack of distractions, the lack of cable, regular internet and especially, for me, of radio (not much of a television hound, I am nonetheless, an utter NPR fanatic) has returned me to the kind of long hours of reading bliss I hadn’t experienced since I was a teenager, (no one invokes this phenomena better than Michelle Slatalla in her New York Times essay “I Wish I Could Read Like a Girl” http://www.nytimes.com/2009/01/01/fashion/01spy.html). Fortunately, the shelves of the “Culinary Suite” are well stocked with food memoirs that beckon if my own library runs out.
Day Three: Finding Extra Hours
It was another good day. I am about two thirds through the novel revision and realizing another benefit to this retreat is that unlike my typical writing spaces; home, office, work, even hotels, there’s no gym access here. At home I try to fit an hour workout into most days; a lifelong habit that seems necessary if I want to stay healthy and productive. However, it takes ten minutes to get to the university gym each way, as well as additional time to change in an out of workout clothes, to shower and chat, even briefly, with colleagues. You get the picture: one hour can quickly become two. And two hours is a relatively large chunk of a day. Since I’m only here for a week, I decide to ditch the daily workout (I know, what a sacrifice). Not only did I want those two hours for my writing, I also wanted to keep the interruptions to a minimum. And as beneficial as it is—usually—a workout is a major interruption. It’s been a hot week here too, close to 100 every day, and one thing you learn quickly in the South is that if you want to maintain any semblance of energy during the day, you’d better make your forays into the un-airconditioned world few and far between. Not a problem here. I stay in the suite from rising until dinner time, keeping my energy levels nice and high.
Another delicious dinner tonight and more time to get to know Philip. He’s from Kansas but has spent some time in Arkansas and we have a few friends in common; the Mid-South/Mid-West literary world is not terribly big. He mentions tonight, too, that it’s nice that, for whatever reason, there are only two of us here right now, eliminating any of the posturing or position jockeying he imagines might take place during social gatherings at more populated writer’s colonies. I don’t know about that, since my experience with writer’s colonies is limited to this one, but I do know that as a relative introvert I cherish this solitude.
Day Four: There’s No Escaping It
A narrative problem arose today, around mid-morning. During the year, when I am at my desk and hit a bump in the writing road, it’s easy to say, “well, it’s almost time for that conference call/dentist appointment/committee meeting (ugh!) anyway—let me put this aside for now and think on it.” And while “thinking on it,” often does work for me in my regular life, here, with nothing else to turn to, no other excuses, I’ve also learned that so does powering through, staring stubbornly at the screen until the next line finally comes along to get you back in the groove. So I sat there. I stared. I drank more coffee. And eventually, reached a solution.
My suite looks out onto the main street and I’ve been keeping the blinds on the workroom window wide open most days to take advantage of the natural light. Today I realize maybe that isn’t such a great idea. Late in the afternoon, there’s a knock at the door. I answer cautiously to find a rather disheveled-looking young man on the doorstep.
“Is this the writer’s colony?” He wants to know.
“Yes,”
“Can I come in for a while to rest and get out of this heat?”
Can this stranger come in? Um, I don’t think so.
“Actually,no,” I tell him. “I’m working right now. But I’d be happy to bring you a big glass of water.”
“No thanks,” he mutters, a little exasperated. “I’ve got water.”
Okay, then. Heart pounding, I close the door, checking twice that it’s locked and my cell phone is close by. Disheveled guy then proceeds to cross the street and sit on the curb, so that he’s in effect staring into my picture window as I write, or try to anyway. I’m nervous and pretty annoyed at the interruption. Closing the blinds seems a little combative but finally, I do, making a mental note to keep them closed and counsel the next inhabitants of the suite to do the same. I guess I was a bit naïve to think I could allow myself to be on display like that.
Tonight is the monthly Dairy Hollow Poet’s Luck, where members of the Eureka Springs literary community gather to share work and food with each other. Philip and I are both scheduled to read. Everyone is kind and welcoming but I feel a little odd at first, like an island among all these groups of people who clearly know each other so well.
It’s nice to see such a large group enjoying literature and writing and just sharing. Even though this group is larger, there is still very little posturing, just a celebration of the word. Turns out my disheveled young man had a reason for showing up earlier; he was meeting up with a young woman he’d heard would be here at the Poet Luck, an ethereal young thing named Miranda after Shakespeare’s Miranda. She stands up to read a handwritten poem that rather amazes me in its mature use of language and its cadence. There are several wonderful readers, including another young woman, a writing and linguistics major at a college in New Mexico, who gets up to do some slam poetry, an older woman who reads a haunting story about a girl in a mental institution and a playwright who reads an excerpt from a very funny southern play that will be read next week at the Hollow. Wish I could be there to hear the whole thing. Finally the evening ends with, of all things, a ponytailed man singing a satirical and sorrowful song about Michael Jackon. There are a huge number of ponytailed men in Eureka Springs and they all look a little alike, kind, gentle, with those frizzy salt and pepper ponytails. Sort of like the boys who slouch in the back of my classroom with their baseball caps low on their heads; it’s sometimes hard to tell them apart.
Day 5: Finding the Rhythm
Even a just a week of sustained attention to writing can being you in tune to your natural bodily working rhythms. Though I’ve been driving hard here—really hard—I’ve actually been getting a solid night’s sleep, at least 7 or 8 hours. Writing about nine hours a day, I’ve learned, seems to require that kind of nightly restoration. Today, moreover, as my stay was ending, I wrote for about four and a half hours in the morning and as I did so, realized I was coming within shouting distance ( another 5-7 hours) of the novel’s end. I knew I needed to bring to those hours my highest level of energy, my very best game. So I stopped, had a quick lunch and then took, of all things, a nap! I lay down in my tiny little bedroom, on my cozy little single bed, and closed my eyes without even setting an alarm; buoyed by a kind of preternatural confidence that I would wake up exactly when I needed to, ready to see my project through to the end. Fifty minutes later, that was exactly what happened.
I already knew this—all writers do—but in attending to the novel for sustained periods of time, I also regularly achieved “flow,” the artist’s mecca of well being in which ideas, characters, plot twists, sentences, words and phrases arrive unbidden that would not have come any other way. Of course this happens at other times during the year too, as long as I’m doing the work, ass in chair, as they say. But it seemed to happen a lot this week. The only other experience I can liken it to is National Novel Writing Month, which I participated in in November 2009 and which I highly recommend to students and peers alike. By committing to write a 50,000 word novel in thirty days, even though your daily writing stints may only be two or 3 hours, you are also committing to walking around in the world of your novel—consciously and subconsciously—pretty much 24-7 for an entire month. And walking around in that world will work wonders to bring about epiphanies and discoveries about the piece that simply would not have come about without the artificial environment NaNoWriMo creates. Writing for eight or nine hours a day for a week or two weeks or a month or two months away from all distractions and commitments works pretty much the same way. The novel has come together exactly as I hoped it would.
Now that week is behind me, I’m here to say; it was a game changer. I learned a great deal about me and my life as a teacher-writer. And while some of what I learned might be unique to me, some of it might not. Some of it might be useful for the readers of FWR who combine writing and teaching, writing and editing, writing and any number of other tasks to support their vocation and who need a little extra encouragement to take the next step and try a writer’s colony. It is no small thing to come face to face with one’s work with no distractions. And while it is not something I could do on constant basis: neither my temperament nor the chosen realities of my life would permit it—it is something I plan to incorporate into my writing year from now on.
Editor’s Comments
First, nicely done! I think it's the perfect essay for September's teaching theme, and you adopted the exact right tone: personal, casual yet professional, and questioning. I also love that it's as much about your experience as it is about retreats as places. So we get both a narrative and a profile along with the analysis.
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> In fact, as I was reading this, the parts that stood out to me most were those narrative moments. Even without looking back at the text I can see you taking that 50-minute nap that's just long enough for you to rest before powering to the end, standing on your tiptoes under the mirror that's five inches too tall, turning on that old gas stove, etc. Those moments that took place in the setting of Dairy Hollow were what were most compelling to me as a reader because they illuminate (analyze) and illustrate (describe) simultaneously.
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> So before I offer line edits, I'd like to ask if you'd be willing to consider restructuring this piece as a narrative. I think that the "incidents" here (many of which already seem to be in rough, chronological order) would have more meaning if we witnessed them transpiring in the actual setting, rather than as a bullet-point-style list. Also, framing it as "What I learned" eliminates a bit of natural tension for me because the event is over already and you are "safe," so to speak. Whereas if we're proceeding day-by-day I'll be thinking the whole time, "Is she going to hate it? Is it going to work? Will she be productive or spend the whole time pacing in circles?"
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> Also, my experience at these residencies is that you settle into these sorts of things. That you have certain types of "immediate" realizations about yourself and your writing at the beginning and different, more complicated ones as the time passes. It's a cumulative effect. A process of accumulation. (I guess that's the same thing, isn't it?)
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> You could still consider dividing it. Perhaps by "Day 1," "Day 2," and so on. But regardless, I'd like to see a bit more of the setting--even if it's your room you never leave! That way, we can also get a sense of Dairy Hollow as a unique retreat. Right now, structured as a list, I fear some of these insights could have happened elsewhere. And that's true, of course--part of the essay's appeal is its universality. But if they also happen while you're more narratively engaged then we get both: a lyric description of place, coupled with a reflection of how that physical place is changing the writer.
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> Let me know what you think. This has the possibility of a really fantastic narrative meditation. I want more of you there, more of you in action, more of you getting back to your roots through the gift of sustained reflection.
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DRAFT 2/3
What I Learned on My Summer Vacation: A Writing Teacher at a Writing Colony
Stephanie Vanderslice
I have a confession: at forty four and a writer for more than half my life, I had never been to a writing colony before this summer. Also a full time creative writing teacher, I’ve always been pretty adamant that it’s possible to do both well. So dividing my time between writing, teaching, and administering (a site of the National Writing Project) has always been a fact of life for me (not to mention the additional complications of a rich family life with a husband and two boys). Mostly, it does work pretty well. I’ve co-authored or written three books on teaching creative writing and a long list of essays on the subject, as well as personal essays, short stories, and a novel, all by carving out a certain amount of writing time on a daily—well, sometimes weekly—basis. Plus, there was always “May.” [JC1]
Since our youngest son entered kindergarten six years ago, May has become the golden month for me and my husband, who is also a writer and academic. Classes are over and the kids are still in school. In other words, long stretches of time in my studio with an endless cup of coffee and my work and a blissfully quiet house—even with my husband at work in the next room. May was how Teaching Creative Writing to Undergraduates: A Practical Sourcebook (Fountainhead) and Rethinking Creative Writing (Professional and Higher) got finished. Well, two Mays for the latter, but you get the point. This is not to say the rest of the year was not productive—just not as peaceful[JC2] .
But I had reached a crossroads with my novel. I was on the precipice of the third draft, and I was pleased with how it was going, but I also knew it needed to cohere better. To flow from beginning to end like a great swath of sumptuous cloth instead of a patchwork quilt[JC3] . To achieve this, it didn’t need an hour or two here and there, or even a regular three or four in glorious, much-anticipated May. It needed hours, many, many hours, of my undivided attention.
In April, I started looking into writer’s colonies and was fortunate to find one that was only three hours away from me in central Arkansas: Dairy Hollow Writer’s Colony in Eureka Springs, the north central part of the state, near the Missouri border.
When I sent off my application, I had no idea what to expect if I got in. I had come to believe that the piecework nature of my life—a little writing here, a little reading there, teach a class here, meet with a student there—suited my temperament, which has always been somewhat, shall we say, distracted (my husband recently heard a radio show on adult ADD and has since given me an amateur diagnosis). And when the acceptance arrived, I really began to wonder. I worried. Would I be able to put all that time to good use? Or would I spend hours staring at the wall? Worse, what if I succumbed to the temptations of the artsy Ozark town—antique shops, galleries, restaurants—practically at my doorstep? Would the solitude be a blessing or a curse?
Day One: I am not worthy!
I’ve started out a little behind; it’s taken me longer than I thought to get here on those windy mountain roads, so I ended up missing my appointment with the Colony Director to pick up my key. Not a great first impression, but she seemed understanding when I called and she kindly arranged to have my key and orientation packet left in the front door box.
Picking up the packet, I meet writer Philip Finch, [INSERT A DESCRIPTION OF FRENCH AND THE BUILDING/STREET/ENVIRONMENT]. We chat for a few moments and then he directs me [location: across the street/down the road/across the field/around the corner] to my suite—the culinary suite, no less! This wasn’t the suite I was originally assigned, but I’ll take it. [JC4] It’s gorgeous—full of light, courtesy of many windows and the skylight in the writing/living room, with a gourmet kitchen to boot. I make a mental note to ask, when I next talk to the director, if this is really the suite I’m supposed to have. That said, the key did unlock the door.
Apparently, the culinary suite is the one usually used by chefs and food writers. The only one of its kind at any writer’s colony in the US, according to an article left [INSERT where: on the marble countertop/glass coffee table/oak counter] It was renovated in 2003 in conjunction with Renovation Style magazine, along with several major donors, most notably Kitchen Aid. The kitchen is large but not too large (apparently a cavernous kitchen is exhausting for a chef), with state of the art appliances, and a gleaming six-burner gas stove I am afraid to touch, all in a lovely pale blue and gray color scheme that is echoed throughout the suite.
After setting up my desk with everything I think I’ll need at the ready—computer, 1942 map of the five New York boroughs, a Time chronology of the 1940’s, and, in front of me, the timeline of the lives of all six of my major characters that has proved essential in the last several months—it’s time for dinner, in the main house below, [INSERT A CLAUSE DESCRIBING THE BUILDING AND/OR HOW YOU GET THERE—stairs, elevator, across the gravel parking lot].
I spot Philip [WHERE IS PHILIP? Sitting? Standing?] and head to where he is INSERT ACTION. I learn that dinner on the weekends, as well as breakfast and lunch during the week, is catch as catch can, an amalgam of leftovers from the previous week, and sandwiches from the bread and cold cuts in the central kitchen. [HOW DO YOU FEEL ABOUT THIS? ARE YOU RELIEVED BECAUSE YOU IMAGINED A LOT OF CHATTING OR SADDENED THAT IT’S NOT VERY SOCIAL? THIS IS A GREAT SPOT TO TALK ABOUT—IN A LINE OR TWO—WHAT YOUR EXPECTATIONS WERE FOR THE SOCIAL/PERSONAL SIDE OF THE THE WRITER’S RETREAT AS AN EXPERIENCE.] So I grab a quick dinner of peanut butter on toast and head back up to my suite to begin to make sense of my work and to ready everything for the first full day tomorrow.
It’s evening now and the room is filled with DESCRIBE LIGHT. [Insert a few scenic descriptions of being IN the place. Can you hear birds? What do you see out the window? How does it feel to BE there in the moment? We need a “pause” here—Charles Baxter would call it “a pocket of silence.” Something to draw the reader’s attention and your meditation. Only a line or two.] After a quick call home to my husband to check in and let him know I arrived safely, I’m ready for bed and some solid reading time. To further my immersion in the time period I’m writing about (1920-1945 in the US and Germany, though mostly the US), I’ve brought two books set in the period: Ethan Canin’s Carry Me Across the Water, a past favorite, and Erika Dreifus’ Quiet Americans, which I’ve been looking forward to reading for months. But tonight, I don’t read for long; tired from the trip, I’m falling asleep. But excited to begin.
Day 2: The Real Test
The alarm goes off at 7am and I begin the routine I had planned the night before: make the coffee, shower and dress while it’s brewing, and be eating breakfast and enjoying my first cup by 7:15am. Catching up on the world via the state newspaper, the Arkansas Democrat Gazette, is usually part of my breakfast ritual but that’s not available here. There is wireless, however. I consider checking in to CNN.com for my daily dose of news and then decide against it. If there is anything I need to know, my husband will call me. Otherwise, I flip through a magazine with the first cup of coffee and head to my desk with the second.
With no one else to pour cereal and milk for, no cat litter to change[JC5] —although I do make the bed; I’m an inveterate bed-maker at home—I’m at my desk by 7:45am Over the years, I’ve streamlined my morning routine from the hour and a half in those vain teenage years to about a half hour these days, enough to make myself presentable for work and the outside world and stave off the forces of gravity. But here I can get away with just a shower and some moisturizer since I’m not really going to see anyone, which suits me fine. And that seems the message from this suite anyway: the only mirror here is a tiny one in the equally tiny bathroom that hangs about five inches above my head. If I want to apply make-up or style my hair, I have to stand on tip-toes to do it. I’m here to work, to write, not to preen.
Late in the morning, having kept myself at the desk by keeping the coffee coming—no big surprise there; Voltaire could have told me that—the Dairy Hollow director stops by with some news. The chef has taken ill, the result of her landlord’s overzealous use of mothballs, apparently. Philip and I are on our own for dinner that night, although the housekeeper will begin making our evening meals the following day. There is talk of taking us out for today’s dinner, but I am becoming so immersed in my work, with whether [INSERT REALLY SPECIFIC DETAIL ABOUT YOUR NOVEL THAT YOU WERE GRAPPLING WITH, (e.g., Sophia would have worn white gloves or kid ones to a Sunday church lunch)] that I’d just as soon stay in. Besides, there’s the gourmet kitchen to consider; might as well use it.
So after a full, productive day of work, one filled with Berlin curio shops that make the quaint, Ozark town I step out into seem shockingly modern, I celebrate by heading out to the local grocery store for provisions for breakfast and lunch the rest of the week and a very simple dinner tonight. I’m a creature of habit when it comes to breakfast and lunch anyway; for years I’ve started my day with precisely two whole grain waffles—no toppings or accoutrements—and coffee; lunch is usually peanut butter on whole wheat toast or some other kind of very simple sandwich. It feels good to know I can count on my ritual foods even here[JC6] .
Day Two: Girls Who READ
The second day flies by, perhaps even faster than the first. I’m feeling good about the work—the novel is coming together just as I hoped[JC7] [INSERT DETAILS ABOUT THE BOOK YOU’RE WORKING ON. We need to watch/feel the momentum building, see you figuring things out, inhabiting the landscape of this book more and more just as you do!]
Tonight’s dinner was in the main house at six. While the director was extremely apologetic that we weren’t going to be the recipients of the usual chef’s talents due to the moth-ball incident, let me tell you, the housekeeper, who is from Prague, is a darn good cook. Our meal is a delicious juicy baked chicken, with parsleyed potatoes and fresh corn on the cob. It also gives me a chance to get to know Phillip Finch, the other writer here. Turns[JC8] out he’s a journalist-crime writer-nonfiction writer (check him out at http://phillipfinch.com/) who’s also published a novel and who’s here to work on his second, although apparently a recent crime discovery from a private detective friend of his is also demanding his attention and frequent cell phone calls to his agent. It also turns out that he grew up in College Park, Maryland, close to my husband’s stomping grounds.
After dinner, I take a mile walk up the shady street, into town and back, on my husband’s suggestion when I mentioned I wasn’t getting out much. Strange that Eureka Springs is this lovely little artsy vacation town, green and shady, nestled in the backdrop of the Ozark hills but I’m spending most of my time holed up in my suite. Tonight I finish Carry Me Across the Water and realize, that because Quiet Americans is an even shorter book, it’s possible I might (Nook aside) run out of reading material before this retreat is over. As a writer and writing teacher, I’m also a word addict, but until I got here, I didn’t realize how unsustained my reading was, how often interrupted. Sure I carry the e-reader on me at all times; I find it difficult to pass even a brief period of unoccupied time without a book in front of my face. But that just what my reading experiences were; brief snatches of time that, while they added up, were in themselves disjointed, lacking in continuity and coherence. How could I write a sustained, enveloping body [JC9] of prose if my own reading experiences had recently become (except for holiday breaks and the occasional vacation) staccato and disconnected? Here, the lack of distractions, the lack of cable, regular internet and especially, for me, of radio (not much of a television hound, I am nonetheless, an utter NPR fanatic) has returned me to the kind of long hours of reading bliss I hadn’t experienced since I was a teenager, (no one invokes this phenomena better than Michelle Slatalla in her New York Times essay “I Wish I Could Read Like a Girl” http://www.nytimes.com/2009/01/01/fashion/01spy.html). Fortunately, the shelves of the “Culinary Suite” are well stocked with food memoirs that beckon if my own library runs out.
Day Three: Finding Extra Hours
It was another good day. I am about two thirds through the novel revision and realizing another benefit to this retreat is that unlike my typical writing spaces; home, office, work, even hotels, there’s no gym access here. At home I try to fit an hour workout into most days; a lifelong habit that seems necessary if I want to stay healthy and productive. However, it takes ten minutes to get to the university gym each way, as well as additional time to change in an out of workout clothes, to shower and chat, even briefly, with colleagues. You get the picture: one hour can quickly become two. And two hours is a relatively large chunk of a day. Since I’m only here for a week, I decide to ditch the daily workout (I know, what a sacrifice). Not only did I want those two hours for my writing, I also wanted to keep the interruptions to a minimum. And as beneficial as it is—usually—a workout is a major interruption. It’s been a hot week here too, close to 100 every day, and one thing you learn quickly in the South is that if you want to maintain any semblance of energy during the day, you’d better make your forays into the un-airconditioned world few and far between. Not a problem here. I stay in the suite from rising until dinner time, keeping my energy levels nice and high.
Another delicious dinner tonight and more time to get to know Philip. He’s from Kansas but has spent some time in Arkansas and we have a few friends in common; the Mid-South/Mid-West literary world is not terribly big. He mentions tonight, too, that it’s nice that, for whatever reason, there are only two of us here right now, eliminating any of the posturing or position jockeying he imagines might take place during social gatherings at more populated writer’s colonies. I don’t know about that, since my experience with writer’s colonies is limited to this one, but I do know that as a relative introvert I cherish this solitude.[JC10]
Day Four: There’s No Escaping It
A narrative problem arose today, around mid-morning. During the year, when I am at my desk and hit a bump in the writing road, it’s easy to say, “Well, it’s almost time for that conference call/dentist appointment/committee meeting (ugh!) anyway—let me put this aside for now and think on it.” And while “thinking on it” often does work for me in my regular life, here, with nothing else to turn to, no other excuses, I’ve also learned that so does powering through, staring stubbornly at the screen until the next line finally comes along to get you back in the groove. So I sat there. I stared. I drank more coffee. And eventually, reached a solution. She would go to Dresden and find her niece, despite knowing it was a ridiculous and frivolous notion[JC11] .
My suite looks out onto the main street and I’ve been keeping the blinds on the workroom window wide open most days to take advantage of the natural light. Today I realize maybe that isn’t such a great idea. Late in the afternoon, there’s a knock at the door. I answer cautiously to find a rather disheveled-looking young man on the doorstep.
“Is this the writer’s colony?” He wants to know.
“Yes,”
“Can I come in for a while to rest and get out of this heat?”
Can this stranger come in? Um, I don’t think so.
“Actually, no,” I tell him. “I’m working right now. But I’d be happy to bring you a big glass of water.”
“No, thanks,” he mutters, a little exasperated. “I’ve got water[JC12] .”
Okay, then. Heart pounding, I close the door, checking twice that it’s locked and my cell phone is close by. Disheveled guy then proceeds to cross the street and sit on the curb, [JC13] so that he’s in effect staring into my picture window as I write, or try to anyway. I’m nervous and pretty annoyed at the interruption. Closing the blinds seems a little combative but finally, I do, making a mental note to keep them closed and counsel the next inhabitants of the suite to do the same. I guess I was a bit naïve to think I could allow myself to be on display like that.
Tonight is the monthly Dairy Hollow Poet’s Luck, where members of the Eureka Springs literary community gather [JC14] to share work and food with each other. Philip and I are both scheduled to read. Everyone is kind and welcoming but I feel a little odd at first, like an island among all these groups of people who clearly know each other so well[JC15] .
It’s nice to see such a large group enjoying literature and writing and just sharing. Even though this group is larger, there is still very little posturing, just a celebration of the word. Turns out my disheveled young man had a reason for showing up earlier; he was meeting up with a young woman he’d heard would be here at the Poet Luck, an ethereal young thing named Miranda after Shakespeare’s Miranda. She stands up to read a handwritten poem that rather amazes me in its mature use of language and its cadence. There are several wonderful readers, including another young woman, a writing and linguistics major at a college in New Mexico, who gets up to do some slam poetry, an older woman who reads a haunting story about a girl in a mental institution and a playwright who reads an excerpt from a very funny southern play that will be read next week at the Hollow. Wish I could be there to hear the whole thing. Finally the evening ends with, of all things, a ponytailed man singing a satirical and sorrowful song about Michael Jackson. There are a huge number of ponytailed men in Eureka Springs and they all look a little alike—kind, gentle, with those frizzy salt and pepper ponytails. Sort of like the boys who slouch in the back of my classroom with their baseball caps low on their heads; it’s sometimes hard to tell them apart[JC16] .
Day 5: Finding the Rhythm
Even just a week of sustained attention to writing can bring you in tune to your natural bodily working rhythms. Though I’ve been driving hard here—really hard—I’ve actually been getting a solid night’s sleep, at least seven or eight hours. Writing about nine hours a day, I’ve learned, seems to require that kind of nightly restoration. Today, moreover, as my stay was ending, I wrote for about four and a half hours in the morning and as I did so, realized I was coming within shouting distance (another five to seven hours) of the novel’s end. I knew I needed to bring to those hours my highest level of energy, my very best game. So I stopped, had a quick lunch and then took, of all things, a nap! I lay down in my tiny little bedroom, on my cozy little single bed, and closed my eyes without even setting an alarm; buoyed by a kind of preternatural confidence that I would wake up exactly when I needed to, ready to see my project through to the end. Fifty minutes later, that was exactly what happened.
I already knew this—all writers do—but in attending to the novel for sustained periods of time, I also regularly achieved “flow,” the artist’s mecca of well being in which ideas, characters, plot twists, sentences, words and phrases arrive unbidden that would not have come any other way. Of course this happens at other times during the year too, as long as I’m doing the work, ass in chair, as they say. But it seemed to happen a lot this week. The only other experience I can liken it to is National Novel Writing Month, which I participated in in November 2009 and which I highly recommend to students and peers alike. By committing to write a 50,000 word novel in thirty days, even though your daily writing stints may only be two or three hours, you are also committing to walking around in the world of your novel—consciously and subconsciously—pretty much 24-7 for an entire month. And walking around in that world will work wonders to bring about epiphanies and discoveries about the piece that simply would not have come about without the artificial environment NaNoWriMo creates. Writing for eight or nine hours a day for a week or two weeks or a month or two months away from all distractions and commitments works pretty much the same way. The novel has come together exactly as I hoped it would.
Now that week is behind me, I’m here to say that it was a game changer. I learned a great deal about me and my life as a teacher-writer. It is no small thing to come face to face with one’s work with no distractions. And while it is not something I could do on constant basis— neither my temperament nor the chosen realities of my life would permit it—it is something I plan to incorporate into my writing year from now on.
Editor’s Comments Draft 3
As you'll see in my notes (in track changes mode on the manuscript--let me know if you can't see my margin comments), I just just a few things I'd like to see in the final draft:
1. A bit more on your novel--specific details, regardless of whether they're in context. We don't need to even know the plot or characters! But every one in a while (as you'll see the mock-up, dummy lines I've inserted) something that's super concrete and exact. Something that gives us a glimpse of the project. We'll feel like we're watching you immerse yourself in the piece.
2. A bit more scenic details about the lay of the land, the environment, and what's where.
3. Musings that reflect more on practice as a writer and just a bit less so on day-to-day unless it's ABOUT being a writer.
4. A few lines sprinkled here or there that reflect on EXPECTATIONS. After all, you've heard about colonies for 20 years. When were little moments that it did or did not meet expectations?
Great! Thanks so much! I think these will be fairly quick fixes--just flourishes and 1-2 line expansions.
And though you've been VERY patient with me the last week, I'm hoping to ask you to turn this around fairly quickly. I'd love to get this to my Assistant Editor for layout and coding next week. What do you think? Is this something you might have a little time for this weekend? Or at the very beginning of next week? I think we'll be done with these final tweaks. Otherwise, it's super solid and exactly what I was after. Thank you! I think it's going to be a perfect fit with our September content.
Best,
Draft 4/5
What I Learned on My Summer Vacation: A Writing Teacher at a Writing Colony
Stephanie Vanderslice
I have a confession: at forty four and a writer for more than half my life, I had never been to a writing colony before this summer. Also a full time creative writing teacher, I’ve always been pretty adamant that it’s possible to do both well. So dividing my time between writing, teaching, and administering (a site of the National Writing Project[JC17] ) has always been a fact of life for me (not to mention the additional complications of a rich family life with a husband and two boys). Mostly, it does work pretty well. I’ve co-authored or written three books on teaching creative writing and a long list of essays on the subject, as well as personal essays, short stories, and a novel, all by carving out a certain amount of writing time on a daily—well, sometimes weekly—basis. Plus, there was always “May.”
Since our youngest son entered kindergarten six years ago, May has become the golden month for me and my husband, who is also a writer and academic. Classes are over and the kids are still in school. In other words, long stretches of time in my studio with an endless cup of coffee and my work and a blissfully quiet house—even with my husband at work in the next room. May was how Teaching Creative Writing to Undergraduates: A Practical Sourcebook (Fountainhead) and Rethinking Creative Writing (Professional and Higher) got finished. Well, two Mays for the latter, but you get the point. This is not to say the rest of the year was not productive—just not as peaceful.
But I had reached a crossroads with my novel. I was on the precipice of the third draft, and I was pleased with how it was going, but I also knew it needed to cohere better. To flow from beginning to end like a great swath of sumptuous cloth instead of a patchwork quilt. To achieve this, it didn’t need an hour or two here and there, or even a regular three or four in glorious, much-anticipated May. It needed hours, many, many hours, of my undivided attention.
In April, I started looking into writer’s colonies and was fortunate to find one that was only three hours away from me in central Arkansas: Dairy Hollow Writer’s Colony in Eureka Springs, the north central part of the state, near the Missouri border.
When I sent off my application, I had no idea what to expect if I got in. I had come to believe that the piecework nature of my life—a little writing here, a little reading there, teach a class here, meet with a student there—suited my temperament, which has always been somewhat, shall we say, distracted (my husband recently heard a radio show on adult ADD and has since given me an amateur diagnosis). And when the acceptance arrived, I really began to wonder. I worried. Would I be able to put all that time to good use? Or would I spend hours staring at the wall? Worse, what if I succumbed to the temptations of the artsy Ozark town—antique shops, galleries, restaurants—practically at my doorstep? Would the solitude be a blessing or a curse?
Day One: I am not worthy!
I’ve started out a little behind; it’s taken me longer than I thought to get here on those windy mountain roads, so I ended up missing my appointment with the Colony Director to pick up my key. Not a great first impression, but she seemed understanding when I called and subsequently arranged to have my key and orientation packet left in the front door box.
Picking up the packet, I meet writer Philip Finch, a very tall, serious-looking guy with an incongruously boyish face and short, graying brown hair who seems to be a bit distracted, or, rather in full writing mode. He’s friendly though. We chat for a few moments and then he directs me to my suite upstairs. Once a bed-and-breakfast run by food writer Cresent Dragonwagon and her writer-husband, the late Ned Shank, Dairy Hollow is a large house built into the side of a hill at the edge of the town of Eureka Springs. There are suites upstairs and down, but the entrance, as well as the kitchen, dining, and meeting areas, are all on the lower level—the bottom of the hill, to speak. My suite is upstairs. And since there are no inside stairs the connect the rooms, I head up the hill, around the side of the house along a gravel path and a set of wooden stairs beautifully landscaped with wildflowers.
It turns out I have the culinary suite. Not the suite I was originally assigned, but I’ll take it. It’s gorgeous—full of light, courtesy of many windows and the skylight in the writing/living room, with a gourmet kitchen to boot. I make a mental note to ask, when I next talk to the director, if this is really the suite I’m supposed to have. That said, the key did unlock the door.
Apparently, the culinary suite is the one usually used by chefs and food writers. The only one of its kind at any writer’s colony in the US, according to an article left on the overstuffed sage green armchair in the work/sitting room. It was renovated in 2003 in conjunction with Renovation Style magazine, along with several major donors, most notably Kitchen Aid. The kitchen is large but not too large (apparently a cavernous kitchen is exhausting for a chef), with state of the art appliances, and a gleaming six-burner gas stove I am afraid to touch, all in a lovely pale blue and gray color scheme that is echoed throughout the suite.
After setting up my desk with everything I think I’ll need at the ready—computer, 1942 map of the five New York boroughs, a Time chronology of the 1940’s, and, in front of me, and the timeline of the lives of all six of my major characters that has proved essential in the last several months—it’s time for dinner, in the main house below, so back I go, carefully, down the gravel path and the wooden stairs.
Once there, I spot Philip making a sandwich at the long, stainless steel counter that dominates the industrial kitchen. As he grabs a handful of homemade chocolate chip cookies to add to his plate, he explains that dinner on the weekends, as well as breakfast and lunch during the week, is catch as catch can, an amalgam of leftovers from the previous week, and sandwiches from the bread and cold cuts in the central kitchen. This is perfect for me. My images of writers colonies have a bit of a “summer camp for grown ups” cast to them, a least two meals a day in groups, with the inevitable “in” groups and “out” groups. A bit of an introvert, socializing at dinner is fine with me but it’s also enough. So I grab a quick dinner of peanut butter on toast and head back up to my suite to begin to make sense of my work and ready everything for the first full day tomorrow.
It’s evening now and the room is growing dark as the sun disappears behind the trees. It’s still hot and the street outside is quiet but for the occasional car that swoops around the curving road outside my window, the headlights briefly illuminating the pale, bottle-blue walls. After a quick call home to my husband to check in and let him know I arrived safely, I’m ready for bed and some solid reading time. To further my immersion in the time period I’m writing about (1920-1945 in the US and Germany, though mostly the US), I’ve brought two books set in the period: Ethan Canin’s Carry Me Across the Water, a past favorite, and Erika Dreifus’ Quiet Americans, which I’ve been looking forward to reading for months. But tonight, I don’t read for long; tired from the trip, I’m falling asleep. Though I’m excited to begin.
Day 2: The Real Test
The alarm goes off at 7am and I begin the routine I had planned the night before: make the coffee, shower and dress while it’s brewing, and be eating breakfast and enjoying my first cup by 7:15am. Catching up on the world via the state newspaper, the Arkansas Democrat Gazette, is usually part of my breakfast ritual but that’s not available here. There is wireless, however. I consider checking in to CNN.com for my daily dose of news and then decide against it. If there is anything I need to know, my husband will call me. Otherwise, I flip through a magazine with the first cup of coffee and head to my desk with the second.
With no one else to pour cereal and milk for, no cat litter to change—although I do make the bed; I’m an inveterate bed-maker at home—I’m at my desk by 7:45am. Over the years, I’ve streamlined my morning routine from the hour and a half in those vain teenage years to about a half hour these days, enough to make myself presentable for work and the outside world and stave off the forces of gravity. But here I can get away with just a shower and some moisturizer since I’m not really going to see anyone, which suits me fine. And that seems the message from this suite anyway: the only mirror here is a tiny one in the equally tiny bathroom that hangs about five inches above my head. If I want to apply make-up or style my hair, I have to stand on tip-toes to do it. I’m here to work, to write, not to preen.
Late in the morning, having kept myself at the desk by keeping the coffee coming—no big surprise there; Voltaire could have told me that—the Dairy Hollow director stops by with some news. The chef has taken ill, the result of her landlord’s overzealous use of mothballs, apparently. Philip and I are on our own for dinner that night, although the housekeeper will begin making our evening meals the following day. There is talk of taking us out for today’s dinner, but I am becoming so immersed in my work—I’m almost up to the first turning point, when Julia finds the letter; I’d just as soon stay in and keep going. Besides, there’s the gourmet kitchen to consider; might as well use it.
So after a full, productive day of work, one filled with Flushing delicatessens and soda fountains that make the quaint, Ozark town I step out into seem shockingly modern, I celebrate by heading out to the local grocery store for provisions for breakfast and lunch the rest of the week and a very simple dinner tonight.
Day Two: Girls Who READ[JC18]
The second day flies by, perhaps even faster than the first. I’m feeling good about the work—the novel is coming together just as I hoped and I feel almost breathless as I close in on the crucial scene with Julia on the docks, running toward the steamship to Bremerhaven. I’m getting so caught up in the story I feel as if I’m reading it for the first time. I can’t help but think this bodes well, since I’ve been working on this novel long enough that it feels like part of my own history. Though since it’s set in Queens, New York, a place I grew up in, and imagines a part of my great grandmother’s story I always wanted to know more about, I suppose it is[JC19] .
Tonight’s dinner was in the main house at six. While the director was extremely apologetic that we weren’t going to be the recipients of the usual chef’s talents due to the moth-ball incident, let me tell you, the housekeeper, who is from Prague, is a darn good cook. Our meal is a delicious ,juicy baked chicken, with parsleyed potatoes and fresh corn on the cob. It also gives me a chance to get to know Phillip Finch, the other writer here. Turns out he’s a journalist-crime writer-nonfiction writer (check him out at http://phillipfinch.com/) who’s also published a novel and who’s here to work on his second, although apparently a recent crime discovery from a private detective friend of his is also demanding his attention and frequent cell phone calls to his agent. It also turns out that he grew up in College Park, Maryland, close to my husband’s stomping grounds. Although I was reluctant to leave my desk, a common theme of the week, it’s nice to sit at the long wood table and talk to another human being, even if it’s just the two of us. We even get into a little shop talk; a veteran journalist, Philip tells me what his take is on the current sea changes in publishing. As well published as he is, apparently he thinks self-publishing, especially for series fiction, has a great future[JC20] .
After dinner, I take a mile walk up the shady street along grand Victorian painted ladies and smaller craftsman gems, into town and back, on my husband’s suggestion when I mentioned I wasn’t getting out much. Strange that Eureka Springs is this lovely little artsy vacation town, green and shady, nestled in the backdrop of the Ozark hills but I’m spending most of my time holed up in my suite. Tonight I finish Carry Me Across the Water and realize, that because Quiet Americans is an even shorter book, it’s possible I might (Nook aside) run out of reading material before this retreat is over. As a writer and writing teacher, I’m also a word addict, but until I got here, I didn’t realize how unsustained my reading was, how often interrupted. Sure I carry the e-reader on me at all times; I find it difficult to pass even a brief period of unoccupied time without a book in front of my face[JC21] . But that just what my reading experiences were; brief snatches of time that, while they added up, were in themselves disjointed, lacking in continuity and coherence. How could I write a sustained, enveloping body of prose if my own reading experiences had recently become (except for holiday breaks and the occasional vacation) staccato and disconnected? Here, the lack of distractions, the lack of cable, regular internet and especially, for me, of radio (I am an utter NPR fanatic) has returned me to the kind of long hours of reading bliss I hadn’t experienced since I was a teenager. [Side note: no one invokes this phenomena better than Michelle Slatalla in her New York Times essay “I Wish I Could Read Like a Girl” http://www.nytimes.com/2009/01/01/fashion/01spy.html).] Fortunately, the shelves of the “Culinary Suite” are well stocked with food memoirs that beckon if my own library runs out.
Day Three: Finding Extra Hours
It was another good day. I am about two thirds through the novel revision and realizing another benefit to this retreat is that unlike my typical writing spaces—home, office, work, even hotels—there’s no gym access here. At home I try to fit an hour workout into most days; a lifelong habit that seems necessary if I want to stay healthy and productive. But since I’m only here for a week, I decide to ditch the daily workout. (I know, what a sacrifice.) As beneficial as it is—usually—a workout is a major interruption. It’s been a hot week here too, close to 100 every day, and one thing you learn quickly in the South is that if you want to maintain any semblance of energy during the day, you’d better make your forays into the un-airconditioned world few and far between. Not a problem here. I stay in the suite from rising until dinnertime, keeping my energy levels nice and high.
Another delicious dinner tonight [JC22] and more time to get to know Philip. He’s from Kansas but has spent some time in Arkansas and we have a few friends in common; the Mid-South/Mid-West literary world is not terribly big. He mentions tonight, too, that it’s nice that, for whatever reason, there are only two of us here right now, eliminating any of the posturing or position jockeying he imagines might take place during social gatherings at more populated writer’s colonies. Truth be told, my knowledge of writer’s colonies comes from stories of Cheever’s infamous drinking and debauchery at Yaddo, so I too am relieved. The absence of pressure to be hip or entertaining gives me only that much more energy to lavish on the novel.
Day Four: There’s No Escaping It
A narrative problem arose today, around mid-morning. During the year, when I am at my desk and hit a bump in the writing road, it’s easy to say, “Well, it’s almost time for that conference call/dentist appointment/committee meeting (ugh!) anyway—let me put this aside for now and think on it.” And while “thinking on it” often does work for me in my regular life, here, with nothing else to turn to, no other excuses, I’ve also learned that so does powering through, staring stubbornly at the screen until the next line finally comes along to get you back in the groove. So I sat there. I stared. I drank more coffee. And eventually, reached a solution. Julia would take her time with her big decision, even taking a tour of Calvary cemetery as she considered her options[JC23] .
My suite looks out onto the main street and I’ve been keeping the blinds on the workroom window wide open most days to take advantage of the natural light. Today I realize maybe that isn’t such a great idea. Late in the afternoon, there’s a knock at the door. I answer cautiously to find a rather disheveled-looking young man on the doorstep.
“Is this the writer’s colony?” He wants to know.
“Yes,”
“Can I come in for a while to rest and get out of this heat?”
Can this stranger come in? Um, I don’t think so.
“Actually, no,” I tell him. “I’m working right now. But I’d be happy to bring you a big glass of water.”
“No, thanks,” he mutters, a little exasperated. “I’ve got water.”
Okay, then. Heart pounding, I close the door, checking twice that it’s locked and my cell phone is close by. Disheveled guy then proceeds to sit at the foot of the hill across the road, so that he’s in effect staring into my picture window as I write, or try to anyway. I’m nervous and pretty annoyed at the interruption. Closing the blinds seems a little combative but finally, I do, making a mental note to keep them closed and counsel the next inhabitants of the suite to do the same. I guess I was a bit naïve to think I could allow myself to be on display like that. If this had been a story…[insert some imagining here, perhaps? And then allow that to transition us into the next paragraph. Or back to work with something like “but it’s not. The fictive world is at my desk, and I happily return to Julia’s New York in the years before the war[JC24] .”]
The[JC25] only requirement of the colony—other than writing—is that recipients give a reading of their work in-progress. Tonight is the monthly Dairy Hollow Poet’s Luck, where members of the Eureka Springs literary community gather to share work and food with each other in the dining room and meeting area, a great mission-style room capacious enough to comfortably hold about twenty-five people and a baby grand piano in the corner. Philip and I are both scheduled to read. Everyone is kind and welcoming but I feel a little odd at first, like an island among all these groups of people who clearly know each other so well. I read in the local paper there’s a serious problem with the deer population invading the town, so I ask some of the residents about it as a way of making conversation.
It’s nice to see such a large group enjoying literature and writing and just sharing. Even though this group is larger, there is still very little posturing, just a celebration of the word. Turns out my disheveled young man had a reason for showing up earlier; he was meeting up with a young woman he’d heard would be here at the Poet Luck, an ethereal young thing named Miranda, “after Shakespeare’s Miranda,” she tells me as she shakes my hand. She stands up to read a handwritten poem that rather amazes me in its mature use of language and its cadence. There are several wonderful readers, including another young woman, a writing and linguistics major at a college in New Mexico, who gets up to do some slam poetry, an older woman who reads a haunting story about a girl in a mental institution and a playwright who reads an excerpt from a very funny southern play that will be read next week at the Hollow. Wish I could be there to hear the whole thing. Finally the evening ends with, of all things, a ponytailed man taking a seat at the baby grand and belting out a a satirical and sorrowful song about Michael Jackson’s death that he wrote himself. There are a huge number of ponytailed men in Eureka Springs and they all look a little alike—kind, gentle, with those frizzy salt and pepper ponytails. Sort of like the boys who slouch in the back of my classroom with their baseball caps low on their heads; it’s sometimes hard to tell them apart.
Day 5: Finding the Rhythm
Even just a week of sustained attention to writing can bring you in tune to your natural bodily working rhythms. Though I’ve been driving hard here—really hard—I’ve actually been getting a solid night’s sleep, at least seven or eight hours. Writing about nine hours a day, I’ve learned, seems to require that kind of nightly restoration. Today, moreover, as my stay is ending, I write for about four and a half hours in the morning and as I do so, realize I am coming within shouting distance (another five to seven hours) of the novel’s end. I know I need to bring to those hours my highest level of energy, my very best game. So I stopp, have a quick lunch and then take, of all things, a nap! I lie down in my tiny little bedroom, on my cozy little single bed, and close my eyes without even setting an alarm; buoyed by a kind of preternatural confidence that I will wake up exactly when I need to, ready to see my project through to the end. Fifty minutes later, that is exactly what happens.
I already knew this—all writers do—but in attending to the novel for sustained periods of time, I also regularly achieved “flow,” the artist’s mecca of well being in which ideas, characters, plot twists, sentences, words and phrases arrive unbidden that would not have come any other way. Of course this happens at other times during the year too, as long as I’m doing the work, ass in chair, as they say. But it seems to have happened a lot this week. The only other experience I can liken it to is National Novel Writing Month, which I participated in in November 2009 and which I highly recommend to students and peers alike. By committing to write a 50,000 word novel in thirty days, even though your daily writing stints may only be two or three hours, you are also committing to walking around in the world of your novel—consciously and subconsciously—pretty much 24-7 for an entire month. And walking around in that world will work wonders to bring about epiphanies and discoveries about the piece that simply would not have come about without the artificial environment NaNoWriMo creates. Writing for eight or nine hours a day for a week or two weeks or a month or two months away from all distractions and commitments works pretty much the same way. The novel has come together exactly as I hoped it would.
Now that the week is behind me, I’m here to say that it was a game changer. I learned a great deal about me and my life as a teacher-writer. It is no small thing to come face to face with one’s work with no distractions. And while it is not something I could do on constant basis— neither my temperament nor the chosen realities of my life would permit it—it is something I plan to incorporate into my writing year from now on.
Editor’s Comments
Dear Steph,
Bravo! This was exactly what I was looking for. Thanks so much for getting it to me ahead of schedule.
As you'll see, I've only got a teeny-tiny little bit more that I'd like you to add about your book. I think being aware of (and a part of) what you're working on there really adds a layer of intimacy for the reader, to say nothing of inclusion. We feel like insiders. I think it really makes the piece "pop" for lack of a better word. I, too, feel invested in the decisions of Julia, even though I've only had the tiniest of sketches. So take a look at the second half of the essay where I've pointed out just a couple of places that could benefit from an extra line or two.
Otherwise, we're done! Thank you so much.
Lastly, would you mind sending the following with this last draft:
1. A 1-2 line teaser (in the third person) for our home-page excerpt.
2. Any further links or "extras" that you'd like us to add in the "further links and resources" section. I'll put the essay you referred to by Slatalla, as well as one to Phillip's site. Anything else? Just let me know.
Thanks!
Best,
Jeremiah
FINAL PUBLISHED DRAFT:
[JC1]HA! So true…
[JC2]Stephanie: I’ve pared back some of the parentheticals as they’re pretty heavy in these first few paragraphs.
[JC3]NICE!
[JC4]STEPH: Having trouble visualizing this—is it one big house? Or multiple buildings?
[JC5]NICE!
[JC6]Steph: You’ll talk about sustained reading later.
[JC7]Steph: how about a clause here that reveals a tiny insight or bit of progress that’s specific to your novel, or a scene you conquered. Anything that’s super specific.
[JC8]Is there anyone else besides you here? Or just the two of you.
Also, give us just a few descriptive details abou the room—what sort of tables, light, trays or plates, wood or linoleum…just something to set the scene.
[JC9]GOOD! Exactly right--writerly self-awareness and self-reflection on process.
[JC10]Ah, yes! I’d almost forgotten this was your first time. Can we have one or two more sprinkles earlier in the text about expectations that had been foiled. For example, did you expect more writers? More drinking? A pool table? Whatever.
[JC11]Steph: As I mentioned earlier, I think we need to catch little glimpses of your novel. Just sketches, like this placeholder sentence here. Something that’s distinct and concrete and YOURS.
[JC12]How strange!
[JC13]I didn’t realize the building was in town…for some reason I imagined it in a field of tucked up against a stand of trees, with paths to other buildings and the main place you eat. We’ll have some photos so that won’t be a big deal. But maybe upon your arrive give us a 1-2 line sketch of the lay of the land.
[JC14]Where? What is the physical space like? GIVE US DESCRIPTIVE DETAILS.
[JC15]Nice!
[JC16]Nice!
[JC17]Is there a particular Site, Steph? Or should we link to the National Writing Project in general?
[JC18]Should this be CAPS?
[JC19]Steph: Can you expand this just a touch? Maybe 3-4 lines of how you came to the story, what intrigues you about it, and how only this SUSTAINED immersion at the colony is somehow allowing you to descend into the story. It’s impressive that you are getting into the zones so quickly, after all! Especially with your fears that you wouldn’t. Just want a bit more before you get up for the next meal.
[JC20]Do you feel the same? Or, give me 1-2 more lines from Philip.
[JC21]Maybe a half line or fragment linking back to Philip’s comment about self-publishing, as I assume he also means digitally? This would create linkage between two paragraphs.
[JC22]What did you eat? Insert “of…”
[JC23]One more line on the novel and its plot for pacing. We jump to next paragraph a bit quickly, which feels abrupt. Maybe even have you look out the window trying to sort through something, or pace around the room. We need a cleaner transition TO the open window and this odd encounter. How strange, right?
[JC24]Something here about the intersection of the fictive and “real” world. See suggestions in text.
[JC25]SOMETHING HERE ABOUT HOW IT CAME TO BE THAT YOU WERE READING THIS NIGHT. This is my guess, yes?
Here is the link to the final published essay.